Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

There was a sharp spark of pain as Machi was pulled from his place, made known through the wince and abrupt intake of breath, the harshness, and accusation in his eyes as they met Senmut's in a look that, if the half-breed did not know better (and perhaps at this precise sleep-deprived moment he didn't), could almost be described as particularly irritated.

Gentle. The only word offered in warning reply; yet another look at the priest's earnest face pulled a breath deep from within Machi's lungs. A forepaw pulled over his hollow, tired face. Please, darling. Tacked on, softer this time.

A make-shift pelt bag was gathered from the grasses, and Machi limped to the red man's side, prepared to follow.