Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

set before this bc unsure of outcome, but also fwd dated to morning of 20th. what's time? who cares

he'd trod on her heels after she'd parted the glade, trailing after her like a courser hot on its quarry through the sylvan highveld; this she knew by the saurian gaze that met her occasional glances from the droves of trees between them. 

just the same she ghosted midst the late night darkness, light of foot and mind whetted as a rapier half-sheathed in its gilded scabbard.  her self-annointed squire would need to keep the pace if he intended on attending her labyrinthian route, but after a time she only heard the tree boughs creak and pop and leaves sigh, then silence once again. the sound of his lope over leaf-litter no longer fetched her ears and vexation up. 

when she turned her head, esmé was regarded with no crocodilian stare. riley must have found her journey too tedious and drudging and headed off on his own detour. 

apathetic to the boy's free will, she gave the darkness behind her a one last flinty look before turning to press ahead on her northwesterly ascent up the mountain opposite its cold, louring range.

as darkness began to bow out of dawn's dusty mauve light, the woman sought respite in a small limestone cave clad in jade lichens and climbing overgrowth.

cautiously, she searched through both entrances of the lair. the wan scent of boar filled her nostrils, but it was clear the cave had not seen a visitor in many moons. satisfied, esmé settled into the hideaway's black gut and coiled up into a ball, tucking her nose into the brush of her tail but keeping her ears open to heed any rumours of unwanted passers-by.