Spotted Eagle Mountain there's really no way of winning

A sound. A voice. 
It is the raven, the one who is reminiscent of her maiden, but not. This one is not a raven, but a dove; eyes the color of smoke, the black of her pelt broken up with a splash of eggshell, covering a beating heart. She is smiling, but it isn't returned. 
Yes, is her response, whistled through her teeth. She cannot remember the last time she spoke. Perhaps it was to Khaba. alone. 
Zaahira does not directly invite the dove to come to her side, but does not shoo her away.  She straightens her back, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity to break an otherwise flat expression. What could she possibly want with her?