Redhawk Caldera kirgavik

As Kigipigak drew along the path towards the edge of the claim, he saw a shape. It felt as if he were looking at a mirror-image of himself. The closer he got the less alike they appeared; scarred in the face like he was, but more garish. He did not look long upon the stranger's face lest he stare and cause upset, eye-to-eye, and still found the length of scar upon the man's head to be formidable. Deep beneath his worried thoughts he pondered what misadventure had created that wound.

The guard waited patiently for Kigipigak to gather himself, catch his breath, and speak. He seemed expectant for an explanation. The northerner wouldn't have him wait for long.

I greet you. He starts. I am looking for someone. There is a young woman, her coat is very dark and sometimes warm, like rich autumn leaves in shadows. What else could set her apart from any other? She is small and quick, and very kind. Her name is Sakhmet.

Asking around for signs of her was becoming a tired affair; Kigipigak did not know where else he would have to go, who he would have to ask, before she would return to him. How long had she waited when Kigipigak had been injured? He would give her at least that long.

Has she been this way?