Lion Head Mesa pull up the intruder by the root of the weed

"HEH?"

What was he saying? Prisoner words, probably. Like, 'I need water,' or 'I need food', or 'let me out, I'm sick,' or 'help, I'm dying'. You know, the kind of words that rotted the wood of her head and was better off dead, dead, dead!

Legend swung her wrists, watched lazily, uncaring, bored and tired from a day of nonsensical border patrolling. The enclosure smelled foul the closer her face dipped into the crater of it. Resting gently her cheek upon her paw, she waited, quiet. Patching fur. Dust-rolled. A path looped in circles by tired and wearing claws. Ra would do that, and the mesa, the desert, would tumble even the mightiest of men. This man, not a mighty one, and not even a man.

Rising to her feet, she disappeared, leaving Drusk for dead.

The minutes would continue to pass. Starvation worked slowly. Over the course of days before hours or minutes, but minutes would clock down to the failure of organs, your own exhaustion. Just how long you might stay asleep from your riddance of energy, before you awoke to your skin and bones. Drusk would reach that point in due time. And if he could believe it in eventual hysteria, his eyes would open to a torn deer leg, plump at the shoulder. She dropped to her stomach again, and watched for a second time.