[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Bm9Ovjv.png[/img][/center]
[right][sub][color=a1a1a1]Direct mentions: [@Simple Unicycle][/color][/sub][/right]

The stone beneath Yarmira’s feet was dead. No breath of the Green in these walls, no root nor creeping vine, only the cold weight of rock pressing down from above, lifeless and still. There were caves in her homeland, but no Bosmer delved their depths. Her elders spoke of such places in hushed voices, crevices forsaken by The Great Spinner, places where malevolent spirits prowled. Languishing in the absence of the Green, waiting in the dark and still air for their next victims. To steal the breath from their lungs, the flesh from their bones, and walk again in the daylight as shambling mockeries of life, like crude puppets. 

The stories crept into her mind like shadows, dark and unsettling. The weight of them pressed on her chest, urging her to move faster, to dash through the cold corridors before the spirits of the cave caught up. 

Her feet itched to run, but Yarmira stayed in step. She found her confidence in the familiar bone grip of the daggers in either hand, the familiar weight of the bow slung across her chest. Surrounded on either side by similarly armed men and women, most who towered above her, the young Bosmer silently dared the twisted cave spirits or crimson demons to test their mettle. She prowled low and quiet through the tight caverns, one ear listening intently for the anguished howls of lost spirits and the other caching snippets of her companion's conversations. The Bosmer dropped back in the pack, a desperate attempt to avoid the veritable duststorm stirred up by Kiffar-Nirthal. 

A voice cut through the dim. "Not exactly how I pictured my day going..."

Her head swiveled like an owl's and she fixed her gaze on the speaker, a cellmate who had gone unnoticed until now. Tall, bronzed skin, and with those same alien, rounded ears that seemed common in these parts. He carried what looked to her like a giant, two-handed dagger, with a strange bow slung across his back. Unfamiliar attire, but the bow marked him as a fellow hunter. She fell in step with him, staring up at the Imperial inquisitively before speaking.

[color=00FF7F]"It would be a dull life if you knew the shape of your story before it was sung,"[/color] she said, voice high and piping, black eyes bright with a kind of incipient good will. [color=00FF7F]"Y’ffre delights in twists and turns. A tale without surprise is like a hunt where the prey falls willingly into your jaws."[/color]

Her gaze kept returning to his bow. It was familiar in shape, yet foreign in spirit. She knew bows of sinew and bone, carved from the gifts of the hunt. Shaped by careful hands and honored in use. But this was something else entirely. She couldn’t help but feel a twist of discomfort in her throat as she studied it. Yarmira tried to move past the feeling. 

[color=00FF7F]"I've found many such creatures in this strange country, who might give up their life without a chase,"[/color] Yarmira continued her previous thought. [color=00FF7F]"Great, lowing beasts, some with horns atop their huge heads this long,"[/color] she spread her arms wide. [color=00FF7F]"They they live in herds, but will walk right up to a hunter, no fear in their eyes. As if they've forgotten they are prey."[/color] 

Yarmira addressed the companions nearest to her, hoping to gain some insight into the things that pursued them. [color=00ff7f]"Tell me friends, have any of you encountered these red demons before? Are they Mer or beast? A hunter must know their quarry."[/color]