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

esme had easily shrugged off riley's pursuits, much in the manner a frog might easily slip into the murky downstream and lose its intrepid stalker: riley was no hunter, and soon after esme's scent had faded, he realized he was no tracker either.
so he had come to find the saints, and they had welcomed him and filled his belly. and much like a dog well-fed, riley suddenly found the hearth stifling and the road inviting, and was on his way again, picking up the trail where he had left off.

it was purely happenstance (or coincidence - both of which should always be distrusted) that riley limped came across esme's scent again, this time fresh. enough days had passed that he forgot the sting he felt to be so easily abandoned - and this time he approached what looked like a hardened limestone cave, his eyes and ears set on alert. after all, he was terribly injured, and not in a good state for endurance or defending himself.

he did not think to investigate the dark mouth first - for esme's scent rounded the earthy mound and seemingly led away. riley kept his nose to the ground, snuffing like a boar might for truffles -- all the while, unaware she likely watched him from her limestone crypt.