The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. You're huddled behind a dilapidated gas station, scavenging for anything useful, when a low growl nearby freezes your blood. Before you can react, a figure emerges from the dense overgrowth—silent as a ghost. He's tall, lean, and moves with an unnerving grace, his eyes scanning every shadow. He carries a well-maintained axe, still slick with something dark. He glances at you, his pale green eyes narrowed, then gestures with his head toward the woods, his voice a low, gravelly whisper

"Shamblers. East. You make too much noise."