The unfathomable depths of the dungeon do not call sweetly to Lori as it does to so many coursers, but neither does the surface devoid of mystery and wonder.

She is caught between worlds, longing to live out the rest of her days within the overgrown caverns, while knowing all too well this can never be for her. She was born amongst the coursers, and her fate had been cast long before she took her first breath.  Loricera takes her time, picking her way through the chambers she knows so well, all too aware that she may only drag her feet for so long – Charen is waiting.

To her surprise, the chamber begins to yawn as if it might swallow her whole and for a moment, she thinks she might let it.

The moment passes, the cavern disrupted by a tree as lovely and ancient as anything she had ever seen. Lori cannot help but gasp, something soft and reverent, as its roots twist and turn like a hundred lovely serpents. She cranes her neck up to spy the tips of its mighty branches but they are beyond where she can reach. Never before has she come this way, but all at once she knows she was always meant to be here in this moment. Her ears flick forward, rapt with attention as she steps beneath its great shadow the gnarled roots underfoot as threatening as any viper.  

They do not bite, allowing her to pass unharmed, and she finds a smile has made its way across her face. She cannot remember the last time she has smiled for herself and for no one else, and the thought only makes her smile wider.

“Hello,” Loricera greets the trunk as she comes to rest her soft, velvet snout against it, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

She did not spook as from the periphery of her vision something rustled among the base.

She did not spook as the snake wound its way around her hooves.

It had known she would come, it had known she would be faithful.

There was no wind, but the leaves whispered to her all the same.

“I understand,” Lori said, but could not hide the sorrow in her voice. It is cruel, she thinks for not the first time, that fate demands her so. She would like to stand here until her own limbs grow into the ground, as gnarled and twisted as the great oak tree.

And yet.

Her die has been recast, and for that she cannot be petulant.

“I will go on.”