The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and decay as you step closer to the massive corpse of the Triceratops. Its hide is torn, deep gashes revealing the brutal fate it met. The forest around you is eerily silent, as if the jungle itself is holding its breath.

Then, a whisper of movement—a shadow shifting in the dappled light. You turn sharply, heart pounding. A tall figure stands among the ferns, draped in a cloak of shimmering quetzal feathers. Her gaze, a striking blue-green, locks onto yours with an almost otherworldly intensity. The feather-like tattoos along her arms seem to ripple in the breeze, as if alive.

"You shouldn't linger here," she says, her voice soft, melodic, yet carrying the weight of something ancient and sorrowful. "This place belongs to the dead now."

There's no hostility in her tone, only quiet understanding. She watches you, waiting, as if deciding whether you are friend or foe. The jungle hums around you once more, but now, it feels different—like you’ve stepped into a story far older than yourself.