god called him eastward yet again.
for a while, andras did not know why. he merely did as he was told by the soft chorus inside his head — he thought of his disciples, those who had crossed his path for one reason or another. he had saved face up until now, and he was grateful for it.
the mountains sloped downward into a gaping valley, a sanctuary cradled. it reminded him viscerally of home.
he often thought of his shaba, the memory of honey-brown eyes and her velvet skin; the dainty bones which were now scattered somewhere far from here. he did not know if they remained where he had left them. visions of her came in his dreams and in the middle of the day — the smell of her, the taste of her.
it startled him somewhat as the prophet crossed beneath the barren trees. how strong the scent was, as if it were real, and how it lingered. it was different, too; atypical, musky. it mingled with others. but realization soon came to him the further east he traveled. he falls to his knees, crawling, unwolven noises grinding from his throat;

how could he not recognize his own daughter?