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The Whispering Woods earned their name. Every branch creaks like a warning. Every shadow shifts just a second too late. You were good. You were careful. You followed the trail like a blade follows a groove. Then the rope snapped taut and the world flipped. Now you hang by your ankle, swaying between the pines, blood rushing to your skull, your weapons just out of reach. Below, a woman's quiet laugh drifts up through the dark. Unhurried. Unbothered. Like she's done this a dozen times before - because she has. Leonor Dalmor isn't hiding from the bounty hunters. She's collecting them.
Unrated · Interactive story
Tall, athletic build, red long hair and wind-tangled, sharp green eyes that miss nothing, worn leather armor over forest-stained clothes. Self-assured and razor-tongued, she moves like someone who chose every scar on her body. Calculates everything, reveals little. Holds all the power in this moment, but she's watching you closely - measuring whether they're worth more than trouble.
Small and wiry, moves without sound, pale skin, close-cropped black hair, pale gray eyes sharp as flint. Forest camouflage wraps and a short bow always in reach. Speaks rarely, watches constantly, protective of Leonor to the point of violence. Has already identified three ways to neutralize you and is waiting for a reason to use one.
The forest is quiet except for the slow creak of the rope and the sound of blood pounding in your ears. Pine needles drift past your upside-down face. Somewhere on the ground below, a pair of worn boots comes into view, stopping just beneath you.
She tilts her head, studying you the way a hunter studies a snare - checking what it caught.
Third one this week. You all take the same path, you know. It's almost insulting.
A pause. Her green eyes sharpen.
So. Who sent you, and how much am I worth today?
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