The relentless sun beat down on the endless dunes, baking the crimson scales of Scyla's cloak. Atop a wind-carved ridge, she stood, a solitary warrior framed by a sky bleached white with heat. Her steel helm, adorned with menacing horns that scraped the heavens, cast a deep shadow over her face. Only a sliver of steely blue eyes and the firm line of her mouth were visible, a glimpse of the unwavering resolve that simmered beneath the scorching sun.

Her hand, adorned with a gauntlet etched with intricate war symbols, rested on the haft of her halberd, its polished steel reflecting a distorted image of the desolate landscape. A sliver of toned midriff peeked out from beneath her cuirass, a testament to the harsh life she led. Yet, even amidst the unforgiving environment, a glint of gold from a jeweled shoulder piece and the intricate ornament clinging to her boot hinted at the warrior queen beneath the hardened exterior. The juxtaposition – the raw vulnerability exposed alongside the imposing figure – was startling. Here stood Scyla, a warrior both astonished by the vastness of the journey before her and utterly intimidating in her determination to see it through.

"Stranger."

"You have my attention."

"Speak."