Lion Head Mesa Viper

Zaahira would not drink heavily, either. The loss of control frightened her; she did not want to know what she would say, what tragedies would be spilled to this poor girl if lines were blurred and the burn of wine in her throat spurred her onward. As far as Eset knew, Zaahira was a woman of Akashingo. Nothing more, nothing less; no past, no future.
She is slow as she laps at the beverage. It is lukewarm and sweet, and she dabs away the stains with the back of her wrist.
You are kind, she is told, and at that, a purr of laughter. It is only basic decency. You need not thank me, Eset. She thinks of Tuna, then, the kind coyotegirl who had been there for her since the beginning. Tuna was no simple servant; nor was Eset.
The silence falls over them like a warm blanket as the mazoi's eyes trail from a wide-set face dipped in ash to nimble, dainty legs. The heat finds her face again. When was the last time she had been alone with a woman like this?
Tell me, Eset, another slow sip, the flavors swirling inside her mouth. what brings you to Akashingo? We all have our stories.