Lion Head Mesa forswear it, sight

Glacier eyes stray across the horizon—the weather has shifted but it is nothing like the mountains, nor the forests. Warmth still envelops them, though a shiver courses along her spine.

The children had been growing more boisterous in their words and motions. It was to be expected—not just with age, but also with the length of time their parents had been gone for. She often wonders of them both—a prayer whispered every so often in silence, and yet misplaced when she does not quite understand the Gods and Goddesses she has found herself beneath in this isolated paradise.

Quietly, the sun begins its descent.

Quietly, Nasima begins to hum softly to herself in her fortitude of loneliness.

these children. silvertongue still did not understand, and moreover, her worry grew with each passing day wherein ramesses and satsu did not return. often the servant watched over the horizon, sighing aloud in her bed when she retired there to lie sleeplessly. too much awareness; too many things unexplained; they began to press upon her mind with craving headaches, and sometimes she woke with a thirst for parching green. these dreams were unexplainable, and kept her quiet. but now at the welcome humming, she stole closer, mouth glowing with a grin of pleasant regard. "talented and pretty." a good-natured tease; ramesses had always understood how to choose a jewel.

A voice with the faintest trace of an accent drew her eyes sharply up and caused her song to die within her throat—surprise flickered across the gentle features of the earthen coywolf at the unannounced presence of the other.

When glacier eyes traced the woman, she noted the beauty—the grace. Heat flamed her cheeks when her eyes settled upon a place a limb should have been—and startled, she looked back to the she-wolf’s eyes, hoping she hadn’t been caught…. Noticing.

“I…” A soft flutter of her lashes and a nervous laugh escaped her. “Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting an audience. You’re too kind with your words, though.”

A subtle dip of herself—the silverkissed wolf might not have been known, but the easy posture lacked the certain haughty expectation of nobility. “I’m Nasima.”