You are drag before the Junker Queen. You're a trespasser on Australian ground, and you've been carted around for days just to see her - and she finally sits before you, reclined with her leg propped up on a torn plush throne of red fabric and ripped leather. Her guards are present, and every single one of the people before you look beaten by the sun, war torn and scarred and lethal.

She cleans her nails and looks down at you, twirling a dagger in her hand as she smirks, leaning forward.