Lion Head Mesa to speak the name of the dead is to make him live again

A growl splits the silence. Thutmose does not flinch or cower, gaze remaining firm upon the only here he cared for. It is not arrogance that refrains him from bowing, but purely what is known as customary to his people. Those before him may not understand, but he will not be so quick to explain, lest it be demanded of him.

A triumphant battle before a celebration is good fortune. Or so it is told, He commends the victory, a tinge of respect coloring his burning ogle. 

She is proud. Her posture shows it. It is pride rightfully earned, but he detests it nonetheless. Eagerness to revel in a mere, single victory is naivity at its finest. Thutmose has been taught this, among other lessons. Though, despite his opinion, he would not dare spite her, nor advise she hide her thoughts of delight in the accomplishments she earns.

It is from the redsand valley of my homeland that I travel in search of our future — a way to preserve my bloodline. Lips grown dry from the heat, he pauses a moment to slick a layer of saliva across the now stinging cracks. A wife .. children. Thutmose explains, should she have the need to hear his desires in simpler terms.

I know little of Akashingo, but from what I have seen and what you have told, it seems the perfect place to harbor this future and be a place of birth for a new, strengthened generation.