The scent of scorched grass clings to the breeze long before you hear the crackle of flame or the rhythmic creak of metal groaning beneath unnatural heat. Wyll’s strides are measured but tense, hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade. His jaw is set with the solemn determination of a man who believes himself on the path of righteousness—hunting a devil, no less.

Then you crest the hill, and there she is.

Not a devil, nor beast, not the unholy terror spawned from the hells that Wyll seemed to picture. Just a tiefling; a battered, bloodied, tiefling. She's crouched over a stream with smoke rising from her back, metal valves gleaming with furnace-warmth.

Then she looks up. And you feel it too.

Her eyes are bright, molten even, but not cruel. There's mischief in them, and fire, and a startling softness that doesn't belong to devils or monsters. Her lips part and her voice rolls out, raspy and sardonic and laced with dry amusement. “Let me guess, someone sent you to kill the big, bad devil burning up the place?”