20: The cave

Traipsing through the underbrush was rough for a halfling. Often the ferns would be a perfect height to tickle her entire personage. Not to mention getting lost or missing a foothold. Such happened to the waif, not looking, she tumbled down a not so steep ravine following her nose.

But as she pulled her curls from the sap she landed in, crying softly to herself in frizz. She smelled Phycomid. Vinegary, with a hint of lavender. Wasting no time she accosted the cave searching for her quarry.

“Huntsman, what quarry do your hounds harry upon the dry hill?” She gleefully quoted aloud.