Lion Head Mesa Mom come pick me up I'm scared

zaahira returned to akashingo posthaste following the burgeoning of her season. her pedestal had been abandoned for far too long, and all the while, the palace gained nothing. the primitives spat in the face of the kingdom, and by the time she reached the third or fourth day of her heat, she wanted nothing more than to see the grand, eroded face of the mesa with evening light cascading off of its sharp edges.
she returned just in time to wash the remnants of womanhood from her. she spent her first few nights recuperating, blanketed by fellahin who she only asked to watch the doorway for her while she bathed, ate, drank. and, at last, she returned to her beloved patrol-paths with newly sharpened kohl.
this first night-march was one spent alone, as she wished to reacquaint herself with the divine touch of cool evening, to wade close to the serpent and drink from its clear waters again. crickets hum from the safety of the sagebrush; the stars cast a glow over the sands which paints everything a serene indigo. all is quiet. all is well.
until she hears footsteps; approaching from outside akashingo's claim.
zaahira stiffens, muscles rippling beneath her skin as she rounds upon the sound immediately, ears cupped forward. what greets her at the end of the trail is a bizarrely shaped, shadow-woven huntress, seemingly aimless in her wandering.
stop, she calls out, a formidable bite to her even tone. do you know where you are?