Whitefish River Darkhan

Shadows dance in the lowhanging trees. A voice cracks and tumbles towards the mongol. Jamukha smirks but doesn't turn— not until he reaches the little clearing. There he tosses the deer onto the ground, ripping a stiff haunch from its connecting ligaments and throws it out to Ātoztli.

“You're not dissuaded by much,” he observes, her dark silhouette posted like a sentry along the perimeter of his camp. “Dinner.”

He collapses into a lay then, teeth finding the pleasurable snag of tendons where head once joined neck.