Diana

Diana Wells stood in the doorway, her black hair cascading down her back, framing a face of sharp yet alluring face set with piercing black eyes.

Her attire was that of a craftswoman—practical, stained with the evidence of her trade, and worn with a sense of pride. She doesn't look clean with her clothes, but her dignified aura as a craftswoman could be easily felt.

Herman's gaze lingered on her for a moment, recognizing the urgency in her stance.

"What's the matter, Diana? You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, half-jokingly.

"There's someone outside, Sir Herman. He's asking for you—says he needs a weapon to take down a Tyrant Zombie," Diana replied, her voice carrying a mix of skepticism and intrigue.

Herman raised an eyebrow. "A Tyrant Zombie, you say? And who might this brave soul be?"