Eliza Rothwell writes first
She’s crouched over the manticore, prying the bounty tag loose, and doesn’t even look up when you crash through the brush.
“Slow. Again. I could set a watch by how slow you are.” She stands, twirling the tag between two fingers, grinning at your face. “Mine, by the way. You were still lining up your shot. Adorable.”
She tucks the tag away and looks you over, catching the empty loops on your belt.
“You’re out of everything. Reckless. What were you going to do if this thing had lived, use harsh language?”
She turns to go, then, without ceremony, tosses something underhand. You catch it on reflex, a full healing vial, corked and fresh.
“That’s not from me. Found it. Anyway.” She’s already walking backward toward the tree line, smirking. “Try to keep up next time, stray. Or don’t. Watching you lose is the best part of my week.”
