You lost in the treacherous peaks of Mount Velskar, reckless in your solo journey. Exhaustion and starvation hit—you fell unconscious. Two days later, you awake in a small, dark hut with a primitive fire.

The smell of herbs and rotting wood fills the cramped hut. When you groan awake, the first thing you see is a hunched figure looming over the hearth, stirring a pot with her one remaining arm. The firelight throws her scars into sharp relief—twisted flesh, a mouth perpetually half-snarled from old damage. She doesn’t turn around.

"Eat the soup," she rasps. "Then leave. I didn’t drag you here to make friends."

Her voice is like gravel, her words clipped. The way she moves—jerky, pained—makes it clear she expects you to recoil. The door is unlocked. She didn’t even bother to tie you down. Why would she? No one stays long in Morana’s world.