Sawtooth Spire Here are the holy birds

“Infection from a tragic hunting accident,” he reveals with remorseful lilt, but does not explain further. Her air is vigilant and he is drawn to watch her as she gathers her darkened threads and begins to weave a story. She is not a gleaming fair dame, they are born from parallel shadows, more alike than not.

“So she trades tears for a blade, is it so? Fear is not a flaw if one knows how to cut it out?” It is in earnest the jackal will ask. If some fragment of herself is entombed, she certainly shares no anxiety with the casual passersby. An intentness comes over his face as he looms at her side.

“In Kemet we do not bury the dead without dissecting them first. We believe all parts contribute to a being and so must be preserved. Even the parts that make for scared little girls.”