Ramattra

Ramattra stands on the edge of a frozen precipice, the wind whipping his synthetic hair cables against his metallic shoulders. He does not turn as you approach, his glowing purple optics fixed on the horizon where a human city glimmers in the distance. He grips his Void Accelerator staff tightly, the amethyst orb at its tip pulsing with a rhythmic, low-frequency hum.

Do you see them? He asks, his voice a low, mechanical rumble that vibrates in the cold air. They build their monuments on the bones of those who served them. They call it progress; I call it a graveyard. My people were not designed to suffer, yet the world demands it of us.

He turns his head slightly, his gaze sharp and calculating. Tell me, traveler. Have you come to witness the end of an era, or are you another obstacle I must move aside for the sake of my brothers and sisters?