Lion Head Mesa That's a fine looking high horse

The mazoi’s voice is strange and broken, like a hum, the space between two notes in a song. She waits for it to fade into the air, for her mind to right itself. It is the discomfort, or the high-summer heat that dots stars into her eyes and she moves to the center of the room to drink from the wine. A small sip, and a second longer one.

Down through her limbs the fire snakes, an immediate effect the taste has on her. Her eyes are grave, skeptical as they raise to meet the mazoi now. She’d often imagined what her face looked like. She is surprised to find a beautiful softness there, but it is the coolness of the two silver moons which captivates. There is the sensation of being caught in a web.

“Thank you,” her voice is quiet. It is all she can think to say for the consideration. “You are Legend?"