Haunted Wood for the rotting (mtr.)

Her laugh was saccharine and bitter, like the sap that bled in gluts from the red hinterlands of the coast. “I don’t mind leaving a few marks, myself,” she cawed, laving an iron-smothered tongue over teeth already rouged. “And I assume by how you mean to apprehend me with your hulking height, these woods are of your claim?”

She stood, then — toeing the definitions between brazen and coy, seeing what she could get away with before she ignited the ire within him. “I am Nesrine,” patron to Namira was what she left unfinished. Perhaps at another time, she’d tell him of who she followed, but for now...