Lion Head Mesa kadat ∢ nesikh

he was weak. he was threadbare, now. beneath the sun he withered; blowing his coat, losing pounds of muscle as the weeks wore on. sometimes he had visitors — they would bring the gifts of food and water, and they would make him speak.

little by little the language gap became smaller. he picked up a few rudimentary words and turns of phrase, and so did the woman-king toula of his mountain tongue. but today she did not visit him; today, drusk wondered if he might just die here.

a bone, almost matching his own thinning aspect, was clutched between his forelimbs as he chewed the end.