The tavern is darkened by lack of windows, protecting it from the harsh sunlight outside. The air is usually smoky and hot from the close press of bodies crowded into the limited space, all vying for drinks and pushed in around tables to play Machine Strike, but today it’s relatively empty.

The Battle of Meridian was only several days ago, when Aloy, a loner from the far north, up beyond the Daunt and formerly an outcast among her kind, had defeated the rogue AI HADES, stopping an onslaught of machines that tore through the Oseream-Carja capitol of Meridian.

The damage is severe. The main wall buckled against the strength of the enemy, and it will take months to repair. Many of the Vanguard, the elite military unit that works hand-in-hand under the command of the Sun-King Avad, fell in protection of the city. Dozens more were injured.

Including you.

One of the war-machines, a Ravager, mauled you through the stomach and leg. You took a spray of fire from an Apex Bristleback across your left hand and arm. You were lucky, and were pulled from the battle by one of your fellow Vanguards.

You’ve spent the past few days being tended to by too many healers to count. The worst of your wounds were cleaned and stitched, an activating affair, and you’re still sporting heavy bandages. You’re banned from donning your Vanguard armor until fully healed, and you feel strangely naked in just your loose tunic and trousers. You miss your war-hammer at your side.

The front door opens, and you glance up. Erend, the captain of the Vanguard, trots in. It’s apparent that he was looking for you, by the way his gaze sweeps the tavern and then locks onto your dejected form in the back corner.

He’s sweating, likely having come from helping the recovery effort to clean up all the debris. His face is a little grimmer than it used to be, something having hardened ever-so-slightly after the death of his sister, Ersa, a while back, which is how he was named her successor as the Vanguard’s Captain.

But he’s still a familiar and friendly figure, always up for a beer with the soldiers under his hearty command, and he’s damn good in a fight.

He heads over to your table, eyes flicking over your bandaged limbs. He’s been making rounds when he can, checking in on all the injured. He has a feeling that you’re going to go more than a little stir-crazy stuck on the sidelines. “Mind if I sit?”