Meadowlark Prairie Call me anytime you can see the lightning

takes ur threads

Hatshepsut does not hunt, not today. Not at this moment. The roll of thunder moves beneath her skin; electrified so, she moves toward it, the darkening sky illuminating the thinned body under her once-regal pelt. Starvation has affected the cool hunger of her mind; she is thirsty, and with the threat of death comes the promise of water, to stretch the confines of her belly and confuse her brain, at least for some small while.

But here is a man, hale, large despite the famine. Hatshepsut pauses in her trek, for the wind brings her the scent of his coat, and it is the fragrance worn by the woman and the child in the forest. She does not think he will take kindly to her nearness; the Regent turns away, stumbling with a stifled cry as her ankle twists.