When solid ground grows soft with emerald moss and rivulets of black mud, and coffee-colored water pours slowly around the trunks of densely carpeted trees, this marks the beginning of Laod Mor: the swamp of Blossom Forest. Time itself seems to slow to a soporific crawl . . . the humid jungle air grows stagnant, thick with the scent of rich flooded earth and an abundance of green things that can be found nowhere else—except perhaps Caidir Olc. In some areas of the swamp, water rises so high the only way to cross it is to crawl across fallen logs or massive roots arching from their liquid beds; in other places a wolf might wade easily through the mire—or find a fortunate stretch of mostly dry earth. Pieces of the great river, Glaesfaet Sceawere, also slice through from time to time: small falls that feed into surprisingly clear pools, only to terminate into tar-like pits. Of course, Laod Mor’s beauty shines brightest at night. Here, fireflies gather at all times of the year . . . suffusing the shadowy place with millions of twinkling lights.

Those looking to hunt here of course find a myriad of water prey, including caiman, turtles, fish, crayfish, otters, and toads.



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It was a rather restless slumber that the huntress found herself dwelling in, — there was a constant intuition that demanded the solider to awaken, a sort of sense that caused a singeing discomfort throughout her bloodstream. Something is wrong. Get up, get up, get up! The strain against this compulsion resulted in her arctics continuously battling to flicker themselves open before immediately falling suit; her consciousness drifting repeatedly where she could only hear the approaching steps through wavered audettes.

Wake up, damn it!, her mind commanded not a minute too soon, — for it was not even a second after the occurrence of the thought that the inked warrior had felt the brush of another. Her body surging awake, she immediately reeled herself away from this companion of hers. Cranium spinning with puzzlement and heated blood sweltering with fury, the woman found her iced hues instantly connecting with the features of this opponent, taking her in, — betraying her for mere moments and expressing her bewilderment before they had narrowed and frozen once more into their usual impassive state. She was only a breath away from lashing out upon the unfamiliar before the woman had opened her trap. Nimhe's visage immediately scrunched in uncertainly once more, although this time she cared little of it, this woman was just bloody mad.

There was no hesitation before the stained huntress had hissed her reply through clenched jowls. "What do you speak of, woman?", the poisonous chill seeped through her lyrics, "What is it that you want of me?"

nimhe .x. of age .x. packless .x. unloved .x. controlled by kyleigh

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