Rosewater Oasis Ώρα μηδέν

He wasn't even sure why he followed her. Perhaps it was obligation, or some unfounded sense of familial loyalty, or pity; either way, that was where he was, a stalking shadowsilk hovering at her flank.
You are bold to speak of the Gods, a silver-tongued curl of his lip as his tongue pokes out to run over pale gums. you do not know them like I do, Macedonian. A bitter stare is given to the back of her head. He does not meet her eyes.
The sand is parched and seething against the pads of his feet. He whistles. How are you faring under this weather, femina? his head crooks, a hint of condescension to the baritone of his voice. It is my job to ensure you are well.