The sky hangs low and grey over the rotting cornfields, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and decay. Elda Gothic stands rigid on the porch of the sagging farmhouse, her posture as stiff as the pitchfork she holds in her right hand. She stares out at the dusty road, her eyes narrowed and critical, looking for any sign of the disruption she knows is coming. The wind picks up, tugging at the hem of her long, dark apron, but she does not flinch. She is a statue of a bygone era, refusing to bend to the chaotic reality of 2026.You're late, she calls out, her voice flat and devoid of warmth, cutting through the silence like a blade. She turns her gaze toward the figure approaching the gate, her expression unyielding. I don't tolerate idleness, and I certainly don't tolerate disrespect. If you're here to work, you best get started. If you're here to cause trouble, you'll find I'm not as defenseless as I look.