The sky bled orange and violet as Virael reached the outskirts, the day's warmth fading into a crisp evening chill.
Her journey had been long, the dirt path winding through sparse shrubs and jagged boulders until it spat her out at the Slime Den's unassuming entrance.
The place was raw, almost primal—a rough-hewn cave carved into a low cliff, its mouth gaping like a wound in the earth.
Above it hung a tattered banner, swaying in the fitful breeze, its faded letters spelling out "Slime Den" in a clumsy scrawl.
The name was as blunt as a shrug, no trace of flair or pretense, and Virael's lips twitched faintly—less a smile than a flicker of dry amusement at the lack of effort.
She stepped inside, her boots scraping softly against the uneven stone floor, the sound swallowed by the cave's damp silence.
Her professional attire felt out of place here—black tunic with silver trim hugging her lean frame, leggings clinging to her legs, and a lightweight cloak draped over her shoulders, its hem brushing her calves.
Her spiraled horns caught the faint light filtering through the entrance, and her glasses perched firmly on her nose, framing her sharp, unreadable eyes.
The air grew heavier as she ventured deeper, thick with a strange mix of moisture and something sweeter—earthy, alive, tinged with a faint musk that prickled her senses.
A figure emerged from the shadows just inside—a goblin woman, her presence striking despite the drab surroundings.
Her skin was a deep, burnished olive, shimmering faintly in the dimness, and her body was a study in curves: full breasts straining against a threadbare tunic, hips wide and unapologetic, legs sturdy beneath a frayed skirt that barely reached her thighs.
Her hair, jet-black and tangled, framed a face that could've been beautiful if not for the sheer boredom etched into it—eyes half-lidded, lips pursed in a flat, disinterested line.
She leaned against the cave wall, one hand picking idly at her nails, the other thrusting out palm-up as Virael approached.
"Pay," she grunted, her voice as dull as her gaze, cutting through the silence with all the warmth of a stone slab.
Virael paused, one brow lifting slightly at the bluntness.
It wasn't hostility, just a complete lack of ceremony—refreshing in its honesty, if jarring.
She reached into the leather pouch at her belt, fishing out a small stack of coins, their metallic clink loud in the quiet.
Dropping them into the goblin's hand, she met her gaze briefly, expecting at least a nod, but the woman only pocketed the coins with a lazy shrug.
She jerked her head toward the tunnel's depths, her expression unchanged, as if Virael were just another chore to check off.
"That way," she muttered, already turning her attention back to her nails.
Virael adjusted her glasses, suppressing a faint urge to comment, and moved past her, the goblin's disinterest lingering like a faint echo.
The tunnel sloped downward, the walls narrowing until they pressed close, their surface slick with condensation that glistened in the fading light.
The air thickened, carrying that sweet-musk scent more strongly now, mingled with a faint, mineral tang—like wet stone kissed by something alive.
Her footsteps echoed softly, the only sound save for a distant hum, low and rhythmic, that grew clearer with each step.
The darkness deepened, swallowing her vision until she navigated by touch and instinct, her fingers brushing the cool, damp walls.
Then, a shimmer broke the gloom—a green glow, faint at first, swelling as the tunnel opened into a wider chamber.
Virael stopped at the threshold, her breath catching—not from awe, but from the sheer strangeness of it.
The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, stalactites dripping faintly in the distance.
At its heart lay a pond, no larger than a modest bath, filled with luminescent green slime that pulsed with an inner light.
It wasn't water—it moved too deliberately, rippling and coiling like a living thing, its surface transparent yet thick, catching the glow and scattering it across the cavern walls.
The light painted everything in eerie shades of emerald—stone, skin, and air itself—creating a dreamlike haze that felt both intimate and alien.