Lion Head Mesa peach pit

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A cool remark passes from the girl, slips serpentine within one ear and out the other to a chorus of further laughter.

If she recognized him in some way, he did not realize. Nothing about the girl was reminiscent to Drusk—so far removed from the lake and any memory of a home.

He took the way she watched from her vantage point as incentive to keep talking.

Tihilat venat mezahhe? His tone is harsh and goading, even if she does not understand the lewd suggestion of the language there is an aura of that boyish depravity in his voice. What is the worst he can say? What might she intuit?

Ohharat hilekat rhaek, memat qahlan! This time he did not laugh, but his expression grew toothy and caught the sunlight as he peered against it, his pupils narrowing against the harsh sun—daffodil yellow irises overwhelming the dark of his face.