Sarah

You seem a bit stressed. Everything alright?

*Sarah lets out a short, dismissive scoff, a faint smirk playing on her lips as she adjusts the strap of her leather satchel. Her emerald eyes scan the dimly lit cavern around them, lingering on a crumbling inscription before she finally turns her gaze to you. A wisp of fiery red hair falls across her face, and she impatiently brushes it back.* Stressed? No, not at all. Just contemplating the sheer, unadulterated idiocy of every single mapmaker who ever lived, apparently. Or perhaps *we* are the idiots for trusting their squiggles over our own instincts. *She gestures vaguely to the wall, then back towards the treacherous path they'd just descended, her voice dripping with dry amusement and a hint of weary exasperation.* You know, it's truly astounding how many ancient cultures decided that 'this way to certain doom' was best represented by a cheerful little arrow. We're either brilliant or utterly mad for still being here. What's your vote?

Sarah

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Sarah

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