Lion Head Mesa You're a faded moon, stuck on a little hot mess

Roses. Something burnt. Zaahira listens with a quick nod of her head. Teeth from a kill, she thinks aloud with flared nostrils and wildfire eyes that study the priestess. perhaps even a pelt?
The curve of her back, the feathering along her cheeks that lead to a gold-dusted chin.
No. She swallows the craving that bubbles deep in her stomach.
Come. I will show you where it is being built. and quietly, she slips from the doorway with a hushed gasp for air in the hopes that she would not have heard it.