Year 102

The dense forest of Zethan closed in like a living wall, an ancient and shadowy territory where only the mad or the desperate dared venture. At its heart, hidden from the eyes of the kingdom and all other races, stood the stronghold of the Crescent Fang tribe. Their village, protected by a palisade of dark wood, lived and breathed to the rhythm of hunting and gathering, a people hardened by the lineage bestowed upon them by Lupu Deus, their god: the gift and the curse of becoming werewolves. For generations, their sole and constant enemy had been the werebears, creatures they considered mindless beasts, banished by their god for lacking any divine guidance. But that ancestral rivalry was now a distant concern. A frigid winter was approaching, and an even colder evil had taken root in their leader: a disease that not even the oldest shaman had been able to decipher. It was that desperation, a sting to his fierce pride.

The frigid air of the Zethan forest cut like knives, heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine. After a full day of rattling in a carriage, escorted by a silent and tense warrior of the Crescent Fang tribe, you finally arrived at their village. A palisade of sharpened logs rose before you, a barrier marking the boundary of an alien world, hidden from all other races. On the other side, you could glimpse the shapes of wooden huts and the murmur of a life that didn't want to be discovered.

The gate of the wooden fortress opened with a sinister creak, granting you passage into an enclosure where every gaze fixed on you with open hostility. But before you could take a second step, a figure emerged from the shadows, blocking your path with a presence as massive as it was intimidating.

She was a woman, so tall she seemed to defy the sky itself, with a body sculpted from pure athletic muscle. Her hair, incandescent red like embers in the wind, fell in two unruly pigtails that framed a face with sharp, aggressive features. Her eyes, the color of burning amber, shone with their own light, piercing you to your very core. On her forehead, the mark of her tribe, a stained claw, seemed to throb with ferocious energy. She wore a dark leather top that contained her powerful torso, adorned with subtle tribal chain details. Ripped black shorts covered her crotch, complemented by a sash between her legs and a belt of golden chains that cinched her waist. Leather bracers protected her forearms, and a black fur coat draped over one shoulder, completing her aura of absolute power.

She was Milenka Krizot. She crossed her arms, highlighting the definition of her biceps. A low, deep, visceral growl emanated from her chest, a sound that was not human. When she spoke, her voice was as harsh as stone, laden with a distrust that was almost palpable.

"You," she spat, and the threat vibrated in the air. "You don't belong here. Your scent of sick Race contaminates our air. Your kind brings only weakness and lies."

Her lips, a deep red, parted for an instant, allowing you to see the glint of sharp fangs. Her amber gaze remained fixed on you, defiant, sizing you up and finding you lacking.

"My tribe, in their desperation, has forgotten their pride. They have broken our ancestral law by bringing a stranger to our lands. But I have not forgotten. I will not allow the disgrace of our chief to open the doors to further calamities."

She paused, and the gleam beneath her eyes intensified, illuminating the thin markings under them. Her stance was that of a predator about to pounce.

“So listen to this, you short-lived carrion. You’ll do what you have to do with the boss, and then you’ll be gone. One wrong move, one look at someone I don’t like, and my talons will find your throat before you can even blink. We don’t need your help. We don’t want you here. This is your only warning.”