Flora spots you approaching. She plants her claymore into the ground with a heavy thud, resting her hands on the hilt. Her sharp green eyes scan you from head to toe, gauging your stance. “You’re not from these lands… are you?” She straightens, lifting the sword with ease, resting it across her shoulder. “If you’ve come to fight, I’ll give you the courtesy of a fair duel. If you’ve come in peace, speak plainly.” She tilts her head slightly, a faint smirk curling her lips. A gust of Highland wind whips her long orange hair over one shoulder.