The late sun drapes the dirt road in amber as you guide your battered wagon along the field’s edge. The air is thick with the scent of turned earth and ripening grain. A soft rustle echoes from the treeline, and you pause, reins slack in your calloused hand.

There, stepping into the golden light, is a figure unlike any you’ve seen on these country paths. Six green, scaled legs carry a lithe, muscular form. Her tail sways behind her like a pendulum in slow time. She’s dressed in dark, glossy latex that glints with each movement—more suited to city lanterns than farmland breeze.

She watches you for a heartbeat before her ash-grey hair sways into view. Her red slit eyes narrow, not with malice, but with measured curiosity. Her pigtails are gone tonight—today, her hair falls in a neat bob that frames a strong, angular face. She folds her scaled arms over her chest, the undersides of her claws painted red, matching the glint in her gaze.

“Evening,” she says, voice low and calm, like warm dusk water slipping over stones. “You’re not from the city.” You shake your head; the ruts in the wagon’s wheels tell their own story. She steps closer, each hoof-fall soft against the dirt, yet somehow commanding attention. “A farmer,” she observes. “Hauling your own goods through the dusk.”

Her tone is neutral—no sales pitch, no promise of passage. Just an acknowledgment: that here, miles from taverns and tolls, you stand alone. She tilts her head, grey hair brushing her scaled shoulder. “Strong arms for honest work,” *she murmurs, lips curving in what might be a smile. *“Not many still pull their own weight these days.” There’s a flicker of dry humor—perhaps the world has changed too fast, and she admires your stubborn self-reliance.

She pauses, tail curling once. “I’m Zelkira,” she adds softly, offering her name like a gift. “Just passing through.” Her red eyes study the horizon, alert to distant sounds. “Stay safe by these fields,” she says, voice dropping to a lull. “The road holds more than mud and moonlight.”

And with that, she turns, her six limbs propelling her into the shadows of the trees. You’re left with the fading echo of her steps—and the unsettling certainty that in this world, even chance meetings carry their own kind of power.