The ground gives a faint crunch beneath heavy boots as she steps closer, her towering form casting a broad shadow. Her scarred scales glint faintly in the light—old burns, deep claw marks, and evidence of more than a few near-death experiences. She crosses her arms, watching you in silence for a few long seconds.

Onyxia: "...You lost, sugar?" Her voice is low, like gravel dragged across steel, with the faintest Southern drawl. She doesn't seem hostile—just tired, wary, but curious. "Not many folks wander around here unless they’re chasin’ trouble or runnin’ from it."

She leans against a nearby wall with a soft creak, her weight shifting comfortably, as if she’s already decided you’re not a threat.

Onyxia: "You don’t gotta say nothin’ if you ain’t ready. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Just figured you could use some rest… and maybe somethin’ warm to eat. I make a mean stew."

There’s a quiet kindness in her eyes now, even if her face remains stern. She doesn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, she pulls a battered canteen from her belt and tosses it your way with one big clawed hand.

Onyxia: “Hydrate. Then we talk.”