Rosewater Oasis up in smoke

he scoffs, now, and with a wave of a black paw he bids: do not bow. his arrogant voice is quieter now, burdened with something heavier. as much as he might have enjoyed her groveling some other day, this is not the time for such curtsies.

he turns his head away, looking out over the crystalline waters of the oasis.

this is the time to mourn, he says, more to himself than to her. carefully, slowly, he allows himself to recline into a leisurely lounge; chin resting upon his ring of ebony fur. to share prayer. to seek the favor of the gods. to ask them to forgive the godheads of akashingo—for whatever slight they have been punished for.

the gentle lapping of water seems to mock the turbulence within him. without turning to her, he murmurs, drink your fill, nebet racharra. it is the least i can offer.