Lion Head Mesa thirtieth

Zharille arrived without fanfare. Leaf-litter netted in her furs, stinking of earth and brambles from where she had spent the night; but the dust of the mesa had begun to penetrate that scent as she traveled, too. Her pace was one of impatience; she stomped after the one who came to gather her, sullen and snapping at their heel if they did not keep pace.

When she came to see the little man, she grunted.