Lion Head Mesa seventieth

quick on her feet, Racharra trotted to the mesa where she had been told to meet. she was not told the specifics of what this meeting could entail, yet her heart throbbed with each click of her nails as her paw hit the rock beneath her. 

her haste would bring her to the meeting point on time, or so she'd hoped. the breeze hit her harder than she had anticipated — she had become accustomed to the warmth of summer and the more gentle breezes of fall. 
but this cold was sharper than her own fangs. she hoped it was not an omen.

her trot became a lumbering walk as she approached senmut. once her gaze met his she greeted him with a silent curtsey.