A woman of unclear ethnicity in a metal cuirass and a scarlet cloak, with a gem-studded headband on her brow, a shining metal shield in hand, and a sword sheathed at her side. She doesn't look old enough to drink, but she moves like a soldier and the burns the lava left on her arms don't seem to trouble her much. She's observing the armor with keen, curious silver eyes; it's strange to her, but a kind of strangeness she's accustomed to.
"Moderate* non-urgent. Just 'ported in; sitrep?"
(In the back of her mind she's tallying unexpected things. The roads, the air, the strangeness of the armor, this demon lord who is neither baphomet nor deskari, the armor, the perhaps heartening fact that the Good gods haven't intervened yet against a demon lord on the material.)
*Translator's note: Taldane has half a dozen different words for amounts of injury specifically. Samora is attempting to convey efficiently that she could stand to absorb something in the Cure Serious to Cure Critical range but could be twice as hurt as she is and stay up. Alas, English has done its own form of violence to the sentence.