Broken Antler Fen my demeanor tends to disappoint

the scream caught his attention like a shard of sunlight piercing through mist. sharp, desperate, feminine.

qvasir paused, nostrils flaring as the unfamiliar scent reached him—a scent unlike the damp earth and salt-laden winds of la muerte. it shimmered, delicate yet distinct, as though gilded in some ethereal light. his curiosity, honed by a life of tracking and trade, urged him forward.

his steps quickened as he followed the trail, weaving through the mire with practiced ease. soon, the marsh gave way to a scene that caused his brow to furrow. a pale figure, nearly swallowed by the mud, her pristine coat sullied by the mire that clung to her like a jealous lover.

easy, he called out, his voice steady but laced with intrigue as he approached. the glistening scent matched her—her terror and indignation almost tangible. stop moving. struggling will only take you deeper.

his golden eyes swept over her form, assessing the situation. he stepped closer to the edge of the mud, careful not to overstep and join her in her plight.

hold on. i’ll get you out. his voice softened as he planted his feet firmly and searched for a solid piece of terrain or a vine strong enough to anchor her escape. a glimmer of admiration flickered in his mind, hidden beneath the surface. whoever she was, she carried herself with a fire that even the mud couldn’t smother.