Kallisa Noctia "Flicker" Davennus was in a pickle.
The trick of the pickle Flicker was in was soon to be an incredible pickle that would make most of her ilk say ick, what a pickle-- the type of pickle that sticks and, occasionally, gives a tickle in the back of one's thinker that tells them they really ought to spend less time spewing useless half-rhymes and alliteration and more time trying to get rid of the pickle in question. And anyway, Flicker hated pickles.
She steepled her fingers over her stack of papers. One of her ears twitched involuntarily when the breeze through her slatted window hit it, not unlike a cat's ear that flicked in response to touch. Likewise, her papers rustled. There were resignation notices, mostly, from the various mercs and thieves under her influence who had suddenly decided that they wanted to become farmers. She'd stuck several sewing pins into a big map at the bottom, marking the same damned area in the same damned tomb half a mile east of Zantaric where they'd reported strange things. Doors without handles, and torches lighting by themselves-- that sort of thing. Personally Flicker didn't believe in any force she couldn't engage with her trusty daggers and a whole lot of grit, so the whispers that it was ghosts sounded ludicrous.
Still, perhaps this called for an investigation from the boss. Flicker still had the map of the tomb, and there was no telling what other riches were involved. Perhaps it'd been awhile since she went treasure-hunting, but her adventurous spirit had never truly rested. She'd made sure word of the treasure hadn't gotten out to anyone but her people-- so to the tomb she went, out through Zantaric in the dead of night.