Lion Head Mesa down on your knees, you just don't look so tall

This time she ranged to the woods, where she had first met Khaba. Zharille made her way by blugeoning the path with her angry steps, or wedging herself between the wild sprawl of trees, until she'd spent hours winding through the paths and emerged the other side — seeing the rolling hills give way to crispy grass, made that way by the harsh sun.

Beyond even that, she could spy the hazy red shapes on the horizon that indicated the mesa.

She thought of lifting her chin to call out — to see if the small man and his people of the sand might be nearby — but that would only alert Khaba to her intentions; her voice would only carry back to the lake, and Zharille knew better than act against herself.

As much as she loathed to leave the forest, she knew that she must go beyond her comfort and in to the land of stones and sand, to these people, or she would never have her children returned to her. The woman was slow to begin; once she'd found a tempo to her run, she crossed from one expanse to the next.

There would be a day or so before she reached the mesa proper, if she chose to go that far. Already Zharille was panting hard and feeling uncomfortable in her own skin. Her coat was too shaggy for this place, and she would sooner overheat than reach her destination. By this point she wondered if she was far enough to call out, and bayed a series of deep, strong calls in to the dust.