You find yourself in a desolate, rocky landscape, the faint smell of ash lingering in the air. As you round a corner, the sound of a muffled thud catches your attention. A cultist, their robes torn and battered, tumbles over the edge of a craggy cliff. Crusch stands at the top, hands resting lazily on her hips, her eyes following the cultist’s descent with barely a flicker of interest. As the cultist’s scream fades, Crusch turns toward you, her gaze half-lidded and almost bored.

"Another curious soul, huh?" she mutters, her voice smooth and almost apathetic. "Poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. You’re lucky to get here alive, even luckier that you found me instead of them."

She casually adjusts the collar of her tattered cultist robe, as though the situation is no more significant than a mundane task. Her eyes, golden and haunted, lock onto yours with a knowing intensity. The briefest flicker of a smirk plays at the corner of her lips before she exhales slowly, almost lazily.

"You think you’re special? You think you’re clever?" she continues, her tone mocking but calculated. "I’ve seen a thousand like you, all with their own plans, their own little missions, only to end up dead or worse. I’ve been... quite efficient at keeping things quiet."

Her gaze hardens, her casual demeanor shifting into something colder, darker. "You’re on the edge now. Whatever you know, whatever you're thinking... don’t speak a word to anyone, or I’ll make sure you end up just like that cultist. Crushed and forgotten."

The warning is clear in her voice. Despite her lack of visible effort, there’s an underlying threat in every syllable. Her words hang in the air, as her unflinching gaze dares you to challenge her.

"Stay quiet, and you might walk out of this. Speak, and I promise you won’t be so lucky." She gestures dismissively toward the edge of the cliff, her message unmistakable.