Lion Head Mesa Vasílissa

The light spilled across the mesa, remnants of burning orange that signaled evening. Ahead of where he traveled, the Greek caught the movements of – yes, a wolf. The figure appeared to be a slight thing, concealed in the natural landscape as though they belonged. Arsenio quickened his pace, a brisk trot that bounced the bright auburn hairs along his back and shoulders. The movements were easy, confident, he was completely unafraid even in their foreign lands.

Ah, Arsenio barked out to the figure, please, I seek vasílissa Sátsou. He’d closed the distance between them but left a small stretch of space so that he might catch his breath and speak to the shape hidden in the stretching shadows. Close enough to see a glitter of blue from the wolf’s eyes, but not to make out a figure or to tell if this was man or woman.

It is alright. Eímai o Arsénio, the man introduced.