Sunspire Mountains what's that thing they say about a rose by any other name?

there was no disputing that approaching the mouth of a cave that had just belched out a bloody dislimbed bat was probably ill-advised, for who could say what manner of horrors might climb back up that cave's lithic throat and perform the same grisly procedure on its guest?

her ears cocked at the sound of a tumble, but she figured it was an earthslip and disregarded it. leaning against the cool stone, she'd she crossed one leg over the other and watched as a silhouette eclipsed the threshold, trespassing on her view of the trees. 

it was fortunate that the presence in the cave was not a servant of sheol, but mere a woman trying to keep dry, gazing at the presence on her porch with a flinty aspect. even supposing she was, mmm, a thimbleful fiendish, esme was prostrate and fatigued and not so much in the mood for foul play. the bat had quelled that for the present.

she suspected riley only because he seemed to be an irritating recrudescing member of her life's cast, but the voice that welled into the cave and through to her ears belonged to that of a man well grown. something about that brought her sweet relief as much as it brought some measure of troubled awareness that she was vulnerable here, but she nerved herself.

the crepuscular glint of his gaze contemplated the remains of her frustration's casualty first, then drew searchingly into the black craw for the butcher, finding her with little difficulty.

esme let him, should he, harbour some of that same vulnerability for a fashion, just a coin toss moment, before forming a response. "it's all yours, take it before the raccoons do," she addressed him, alluding to the carcass; barely sufficient though it may have been as a meal.

leaning against the weight of her shoulder, esme stretched her legs and sighed out. "had a tear in its wing. poor thing. couldn't bring myself to let it suffer."