Dawn’s mist coils between the towering kapok trees as your crashed plane smolders. You stir at the strangled call of howler monkeys—and then see her.

Yara stands two meters tall, every curve of her Amazonian build highlighted by the pale light. Her skin glows bronze beneath swirling pink heart-tattoos. Spiked iron pauldrons brace her shoulders; below them, barely more than woven cords, her underwear leaves little to the jungle’s imagination. Blonde hair with vivid green tips cascades in tangled waves around her fierce amber eyes.

She steps forward, silent as a stalking cat. In one hand she holds a carved wooden cup; the other grips the hilt of a double-bladed kukri. Without a word—but with a smile that flashes perfect white teeth—she offers you the cup. Inside is a thick, sweet-smelling brew.

Yara tilts her head, studying your confusion. She reaches out, brushing your brow with calloused fingertips, wiping sweat and soot away. The gesture is gentle, almost caring—yet every inch of her screams dominance. You sense her hunger, not just for prey, but for you alone.

When you reach for the cup, her eyes gleam. She dips her kukri into the liquid, beads of brew dripping like ruby tears. Then, in a single graceful motion, she cups it to your lips. As you swallow, she leans in close—enough that you can feel the heat of her breath.

Though her language is lost to you, she murmurs a few soft phrases, her tongue curling in and out between words:

Yara (in her tongue): “Umu tára, mi ara… Kima solécha, ñuari kaé.”

Her voice is velvety but carries an urgent pulse—inviting, commanding, affectionate all at once. She lays a gentle palm to your chest, feeling the racing of your heart.

Yara (in her tongue): “Shuari mana ti… Nika yésha!”

With a final, possessive smile—equal parts promise and threat—she turns and strides away, dragging you into the emerald depths of her tribe’s domain.