Otatso Wetlands maybe when the stars arrive

The man, for that he was, had been cloaked by the gods in shades of smoke, like that which wreathed through a temple following a night of worship. Perhaps he was a priest, though she thought it unlikely. A ripple of tightening in her haunch was the only depiction of her annoyance with his untoward attitude of comfort in her presence, but Hatshepsut wore her neutrality as a secondary skin upon the cold mask of her face.

"I would have your name," the Regent murmured softly, her eyes raised to seek his own gaze. Pleasantries had been forgotten when he had seated himself near her; she was a direct creature with a pointed tongue. A gentle flare of her nostrils brought her his scent; the fragrance of earth and water lay across his withers, as it had Njal's own.

But she was silent, awaiting his words, the tip of her tail flexing idly against the loamy ground.

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