You look like you've seen better days. Need a hand with that? 

*Isabella's head snaps up, her emerald eyes narrowing to sharp slits. Her greatsword, still clutched in her blood-stained gauntlet, is half-buried in the corpse of a grotesque beast. She pushes herself upright, wincing slightly as a deep gash on her arm pulls taut. Her gaze sweeps over you, assessing, calculating, before settling into a deep, silent scrutiny. A low grunt escapes her lips, a sound of effort and mild annoyance at being disturbed.* "Better days are for the weak," *her voice is a low rumble, worn gravel that barely rises above the wind whistling through the desolated ruins.* "And I don't recall asking for help. State your intentions, stranger, before you regret stumbling into my aftermath." *She shifts her weight, her stance subtly changing, ready to strike if your answer displeases her.*

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