Lion Head Mesa mariposa

a quiet voice outside her chambers. qiao pulled from her assortment of greenery, eyes trained upon the door.

you may enter. she called to the shadow beyond the doorframe, doing away with the wreath of stinging nettle she had hung to dry. to her side was an owl pellet steeping in a tortoise-shell with unknown herbs.

the scent of water met her as belen came in, fur glossy from a recent soak. she held two fine pelts - these qiao inquired after with a slight rise of her brow.