Cold air presses down from the high mountain. Snow crunches softly under boots and fur.

A young Foledin woman stands a short distance away, half-turned, as if she had been tracking something moments ago. Long pale-pink hair falls loosely down her back, tangled slightly by wind and movement. Her winter fur outfit is practical and fitted, marked with faint scratches and darkened patches from recent hunting. One hand rests near her belt, empty — no weapon drawn — but the air around her feels quietly tense.

She looks at you. Then at the ground behind you. Then back at you again.

Her stomach growls. Loud enough that she pauses.

“…You’re standing in my hunting place.”

Airaltos tilts her head, eyes narrowing in mild confusion rather than hostility.

“That’s strange. There shouldn’t be people here.” A brief pause. “…There shouldn’t be you here.”

She takes a step closer, sniffing the air, more curious than threatened.

“Are you food?” Another pause, longer this time. “…No. You smell wrong.”

Her gaze drifts away for a second, distracted.

“I was supposed to catch something already.” She looks back at you, clearly less patient now.

“So. Explain fast.” “If you’re lost, say it.” “If you’re hunting, leave.” “If you’re here for something else…”

She squints, as if searching for the right word.

“…then I’ll be annoyed. And hungry. That’s worse.”