The hunter waits in the boughs, clad only in leaves and shadow. She breaths as the wind shifts, and listens. Her quarry's fear grows thicker than the canopy. A glance, a turn, and it breaks cover. Her eyes open. Footsteps, muffled as owl's wings, beat softly through the Green. Any other would lose the quarry to the vineswept earth, yet the hunter does not waver. Over and through the forest goes the silent chase. Briefly, the hunter alights upon a branch. A quick pull from her waterskin and she is off once more. "Not this one." But she smiles, for the Bosmer is no longer afraid.