Whitefish River Darkhan

the pop of gristle being severed from bone causes the priestess' ears to flutter. before she can help herself she quips: bones make good ojas --powder to help men perform. a flush to her cheeks not all together wholesome, atoztli takes the gristle jamukha flung aside and inspected its mettle.

the gristle snapped with elastic energy. she stows it aside for later use, looking up to see jamukha has brought her something reeking; a dark membrane teeming with pale liquid.

she sniffs its contents warily, nose searching for the tell-tale hints of poison or tonic. the acridity burns the edges of her nose.

carefully, she laps twice - if only to know the taste of this thing. a question lingers on the tip of her tongue, routed by jamukha's next words.

lost? darkness flits across one eye to the other.

no. i am on -- a handwave as she cycled through the words so foreign to her. my adventure.