Lion Head Mesa ساخط khasara

two shapes in the dark; one a familiar spectre which approached coyly, but their voice was cut off. jawahir's skin siezed when a foreign voice interrupted.
crowfeather?
the courtesan did not know this voice which called. they turned sharply, saw the pumpkin-orange eyes, the dark mask. tapering features that denoted yet another halfbreed; but not a face they knew.
shifting slightly so that sayf was behind them, at their hip.
no, i am jawahir. the boy sleeps outside of the palace.
he smelled faintly like the ascendant—turning jawahir tight-lipped again, casting a sharp look to the threshold of the door in to maggie's room, without their usual lustre.