...And before long, hordes would be upon him. But for the time being, there was but a single figure; not only hot on his trail, but planted ahead of the beast.
A crossbow bolt was trained on the dragon. Phirma was built for precision, accuracy and consistency; As the creature prowled on the ground, it would've been good enough purchase for at least 3 shots, if Mollia was fast enough. Not that she had to worry too much about it attempting to take flight, given the fresh blood she'd found painting the forest floor, and the path of the thrashed bushes and flora she'd encountered while tracking the creature. She could only assume the wound it took was debilitating enough to either prevent it from flying away, or give it reason to hesitate. A shot to the wing would likely tear enough elastic or muscular fiber to take that option away permanently-- or at least long enough to either kill it, or be killed.
Mollia's finger slowly fell over the trigger of the crossbow, her breathing almost perfectly stilled from the large oak tree's branches above. Even if it could the basilisk venom she'd coated her bolts with-- stated to be some of the most agonizing toxins on the market by her Zantaric dealer, would at the very least ensure it was in enough pain to not be capable of focusing on flight even afterwards...
If all else failed, at a close enough range, she could likely find that wound and apply a little primal magic to exacerbate it. Perhaps get the poison into it's system from there, and once it was weakened enough, she might stand a chance of fitting a dagger or axe into it's neck. Yes, she merely needed to bide her time once the venom started working.
It all seemed like a simple enough plan, one she'd already been paid for in advance. All she needed to do was pull the trigger... which made it all the more confusing when, after a few moments of watching the creature, she simply... didn't. Instead, she sighed-- almost disappointingly-- and lowered her weapon, before doing what might've seemed like suicide, and making her presence known by leaping out of the oak tree, and plummeting to the ground with a thud, and a rolling landing. If she was at all hurt or even disoriented from the fall, she didn't show it. Grim, tired, coal-black eyes stared down the creature, as Mollia put away her crossbow-- a sign of non-aggression, she hoped.
"...I take it you can speak... Or at least comprehend. You're definitely intelligent enough to understand the predicament you're in. You have close to an hour... if not less, before the rest of Serendipity's adventurer's guild find you." Her voice was almost monotone, and harsh; As if her vocal chords had not been used in months. She didn't say another word-- Her eyes simply remained trained on the dragon, her right hand resting at her waist; On the hand axe that sat in it's holster.
