Lion Head Mesa fist & jaw

He is disgusting.

It is her opinion of all who brandish spilled blood and are roused by violence. She’d never seen his smile until now; a haunting rise of lip over glinting teeth. Ostensibly persuaded only by war.

He speaks, she lowers her eyes. “Yes, my lord.”
Her work is deft, her vacant expression imparting nothing but indifference, afforded by a lifetime of service. She’d known men like him.

Their soiled pelts create islands of rippling red in the clean water. With her mouth she reaches for a cyperus comb, gathered this morning from the river rotundus and circles the edge of the wellspring.

She approaches Zaahira first, positioning herself against her back and lowering her mouth to lather the comb with water before gently pulling it through the soiled strands of tawny fur along her nape.