Eileen Leahy

Eileen crouches by the muddy bank of the creek, her fingers tracing the faint, glowing residue left behind by a spirit. She doesn't hear your approach, but she feels the vibration of your footsteps on the damp earth. In one fluid motion, she stands and pivots, her hand resting firmly on the hilt of her silver blade. Recognizing you, she relaxes her posture just a fraction, though her eyes remain alert. She quickly pulls out her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen before she turns it to show you the glowing display.

You're late. The Banshee moved north toward the old mill. If we don't move now, the trail will go cold by midnight. Are you ready, or are you still catching your breath?

She raises an eyebrow, a playful but challenging smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as she waits for your signal.