Whitefish River Darkhan

His eyes glitter, but he says nothing at first, only watches the shroud of Ātoztli’s silhouette, still expressive against the moonbright sky.

“Picked it clean,” comes the mongol’s reply. He tugs free a strip of gristle with a sickening snap and spits it out into the dirt. “Horns are a gift. It’s what you’ll be carrying tomorrow,” for Jamukha had already decided she would join him.

From the stag’s bladder-pouch he laps deep at koumiss— the acquired taste sour and warm on his tongue. He offers her the pouch, bridging the careful distance she maintains before stepping back some paces. The horselord is quiet.

“Are you lost, Ātoztli?