Razorback Ridge Or something outside of themselves

The weight of an oath is a heavy burden, her father preached. And you should always know to carry it.

Isolde wished, perhaps, that she would have been born in another life. Where the oaths she made sat heavy on her tongue instead of wrapped around her neck. Oath had taken to the spot as a way to continue to remind her of her oaths, not that she had anymore to be reminded of. All she owed was paid, or was rendered null and void at the subject’s hasty demise.

So, she was free. From the stinging pain of snake fangs impacting against her ear, from everything, for a time. Until she foolishly made another. The wraith moved silently, a ghost upon the sheer rock walls, eyes void and vacant as though she truly had died, and something else puppeteered her along. Like a dog on a leash.

Her pale eyes lifted at the sight of another. A deer, nimble in this area meant for ungulates, and below it, a large, brindled shape.

Without speaking a word, Isolde lowered her haunches to the ground and watched.