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The Bosmer accepted Kiffar's praise eagerly, their chest lifting as if filled with the breath of the Green itself. He delayed their escape from this dark place, waiting for "dinner," a concept utterly foreign to her. She did understand his demand for meat, though.
 
[color=00FF7F]"It… It brings me shame to confess the hunting in this land has been poor for me,"[/color] Yarmira confessed as she trailed in the Khajiit’s wake. [color=00FF7F]"The quarry is fleet of foot and sharp-eyed, the air restless and shifting, the Green sparse and strange. The great grazing beasts would be easy prey, so docile they are, but it is too much for one Bosmer to devour alone. You look well fed, Kiffar-Nir'thal; perhaps you could teach me to hunt these forests?"[/color] The mere thought of stalking prey side-by-side with the feline behemoth sent a wave of warmth through her; a return to familiarity in this far place.

Yarmira squatted beside Kiffar, greeting the dark-skinned, round-eared not-Mer by tapping her heart with two fingers three times. [color=00ff7f]”Green’s blessing, Darmon-thing,”[/color] Yarmira said, following Kiffar’s example. [color=00ff7f]”I am called Yarmira.”[/color] She briefly considered adding more to her name like this [i]Isai-Tegulatoris-Sutris-Armaseptus-da-Leyawiin-Esquire[/i] did, but decided his example might not be the best to follow. 

She tried to follow the conversation, but there was simply too much she did not understand. The accused shit-drinker was hardest to comprehend of all. Yarmira settled with just studying their features. They were all so different from her people. She’d known they were out there, of course. Y’ffre showed them to her through dreams. But seeing the green pig-Mer in the flesh, the scaly lizard-Mer, even the round-eared Mer still befuddled her. Had they also been pulled from the Ooze and given shape by The Singer? 

Yarmira chaffed at Kiffar’s suggestion that the mad woman eat this chatty round-eared Mer. She thought of the rivers that ran through the Green, and the ravenous fish that travelled in cloud-like swarms down its currents. If one’s razor-sharp scales brushed a passing creature, be it a wading Bosmer or one of their number, the fish would descend into a toothy frenzy that would end until only one remained. Should that happen here, Yarmira had no doubt that the only ones left standing would be Kiffar and herself. But the Green Pac would demand they strip the flesh from the bones of their fallen prey, gorge themselves, and make use of their remains. That could take days. She wasn’t particularly hungry, and couldn’t think of a purpose for all the tendon and sinew and bone in the room. Blood, she decided, must not be shed. 

Yarmira watched the dark-haired crone as she might a dangerous predator. Her magic set the Bosmer’s teeth on edge. She had seen its likeness only in the sky, a brilliant and dangerous light painting the jungle floor in ghostly flashes. To harness it in one’s hand was unnatural. The stink of rot and death and decay lingered around her, an inescapable miasma that the huntress could detect even in this fetid place. Yarmira was reminded of their tribe’s outcasts, banished for breaking the Green Pact. She would see them beyond the village, driven mad from their isolation. Without their tribe, their family, they were nothing, and had nothing to lose. They were dangerous. And yet Yarmira pitied them, for she knew what it was to be one set apart. 

The Bosmer stood and put herself between the witch and her would-be meal, trusting Kiffar to protect her should the crone use their fiendish magics. [color=00ff7f]”This prey is beneath you,”[/color] Yarmira said, her stance loose and easy. [color=00ff7f]”A better hunt could be had crushing bugs under our feet,”[/color] the Bosmer suggested, flashing a wild and feral smile at Isai. [color=00ff7f]“We shall soon be rid of this place, and have our pick of prizes yet again. A wolf does not stay caged for long. This pest is not worth the effort.”[/color] In truth, Yarmira suspected there was more to this Isai than he led on, but she kept these thoughts to herself. She studied the woman’s features; the harsh visage echoed in her mind, and the hazy image of wild hair and blunted teeth sinking into flesh came to her. 

[color=00ff7f]“Tell me, how does one as untamed as you find themselves trapped in this snare?”[/color] Yarmira produced from within her cloak a small leather flask, uncorked the bone stopper, and tossed it to the witch. The astringent smell of fermented meat and alcohol wafted from the flask’s mouth. Rotmeth, a Bosmer delicacy that was both potent and pungent. A peace offering, perhaps, or a challenge of fortitude.