Lion Head Mesa the windmills

For a long time, Akhtar did not speak.

Then, he did, with a low, rolling tone. Almost bored, in a way.

You are of the mountain. It wasn’t a question to the priest, who looked over his shoulder at the man, then back at the figure of the queen, baking in the sun.

How barbarous his inner self sneered.

Do you wish to pay respects? If so, I will step aside.