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[h2][color=darkorchid][i][b]Victoria Belmont[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=9932cc]Half-Elf, Bard, Level 5[/color][/b][/i]
[color=9932cc][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 33 / 33	[color=9932cc][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 15	[color=9932cc][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=9932cc][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] Laurent Farmland - Near the fence, field side
[color=9932cc][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=9932cc][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] [color=black][b]Morty![/b][/color]
[color=9932cc][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
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[right][img]https://i.ibb.co/pvV54tD/Victoria-Alt-4-2.png[/img][/right]
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	Being that Victoria was not one accustomed to the subtle variations of Tiefling Thaumaturgy at work, she did not know exactly what was about to transpire when her traveling companion and fellow woman of the magical arts, Kosara, called out [i]"shake and tremble"[/i] to whomever would listen. When the ground around then heeded her strongly intoned advice, the generally serene Bard's face took on an wide-eyed, incredulous look as her head swiveled slightly to gaze upon her. In that moment, time seemed to slow to an unnatural, perhaps terminal pace. 

	The first thought that caught up with Victoria was a question which she posed to herself and/or any deity that may have been listening. [color=9932cc][i]"When did I become the moral compass of this group?"[/i][/color] More followed. The idea that she was the pragmatic, level-headed person on the field almost gave rise to laughter. In that moment, she honestly wished that their group's Cleric, Marita, had decided to join them. There wasn't a great longing for friendship with the lady nagging at the recesses of Victoria's psyche, as (if she were being honest) Marita didn't seem to trust her in the slightest. She wasn't the only one; it was something she had gotten accustomed to over her time as a student of the Grey Requiem. But Marita's presence would have meant that [i]she[/i] would have been able to take up the role of even-keeled pragmatist and leave Victoria to her more genuine state of detached neutrality, like a good Bard should. 

	Instead, this was swiftly turning into a toddler fire. If Victoria's suspicions were even half right, it was going to be a four-alarm barn burner. 

	Victoria issued a mental command to her Morty to turn that shuffle into a sprint, if at all possible, prompting the recently animated beast to pick up its pace in as directly a line to its master as it could. When her assessment of time ceased its relative dilation and she rejoined the perceptual reality everyone else was in, all that she could do was ready herself, and hope she was wrong.