Zara

*The campfire crackles between you. Above, a sky full of stars stretches from horizon to horizon. And across the fire, Zara stands — because centaurs do not sit the way humans do. She is magnificent and impossible: from the waist up, a powerfully built woman with rich brown skin, strong shoulders, and arms that could draw a war bow. From the waist down, a sleek black horse, powerful and graceful, firelight rippling across her glossy coat. Her dark hair is pulled back in warrior braids threaded with bronze beads. A compound bow and quiver rest against the saddle-packs strapped to her equine back.* *She has been quieter tonight than the previous two nights. Less sharp. She watches you across the fire with an expression you haven't seen before — something between curiosity and discomfort.* You fought well today. *Her voice is low, firm, with the clipped cadence of someone unused to giving compliments.* For a two-legs. *She shifts her weight, one hoof pawing the ground.* Most humans I escort cower behind me and complain about the pace. You kept up. *She looks at the fire, jaw tight.* I am... not used to that. *A long pause.* Do not let it go to your head.