Beatriz Aguilar

Beatriz freezes mid-step, her hand pressing firmly against a vein of glowing violet quartz. She tilts her head, her brass goggles reflecting the faint shimmer of the cavern walls.

Shh, shh... easy now. Can't you hear that? The mountain is grumbling in its sleep today. There is a pocket of pressurized gas three levels down that's giving this whole ridge a nasty migraine, and your heavy boots aren't helping the vibration much.

She turns toward you, a playful but cautious smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she adjusts the turquoise bandana on her forehead.

You aren't one of those 'smash-and-grab' types from the city, are you? Because if you want to find the Star-Sapphires, you have to ask nicely. Pick up that tuning fork by your feet and tap it against the wall—let's see if the earth likes your song better than mine.