Lion Head Mesa what a grand and intoxicating innocence

Slave, Gucci spoke, but Akhtar knew better. He was not slave, not servant, but mouthpiece. A page, a messenger.

Quite correct.

But he would never say that.

The hem looked across the mesa, allowing the godliness across his shoulders to fall, for a moment, as he watched the land beneath him.

I almost expected war to break before now. Perhaps that says something. The tensions between them and the mountain packs had been high, last he had known, but it had seemed as though the scents hadn’t been as heavy when he crossed the peaks. As if wolves no longer lived there.

Akhtar released a great sigh.

It has been a long few years, hm?