Lion Head Mesa That's a fine looking high horse

Before her, Legend’s raven form dances and she listens closely to the ingress of doubts. Whatever role this woman had played in Shuyet, it was not that of a soldier. She only imagined it was something darker. Unspeakable.

The mazoi talks of a warrior’s strength. Khusobek looms in her mind unsolicited. “I’ve seen.”

She skims her forelegs together. “Why be mazoi? You could be anything.”

It felt good, the wine. To let loose the coils of an addled mind. But like many things she will only permit herself a taste, never to enjoy it in full.

“I’ll be drunk,” she admits with shy laugher.