Golden Glade demuts

atoztli hungrily listens as qvasir speaks, the bend of her velveteen ear betraying the intensity of her interest.

they sound like the guanacos of her homeland. swift. surefooted. difficult to kill.

but who really can blame those under the knife? very few souls wish to die.

their bones light like those of guanaco or deer; some distant cousin, then. strong hearts. every bit of them useful, in atoztli's estimation.

she walks around the felled beast, running a slim paw along the great cleft of skull; the spiraling horns.

how did this one die?