It wouldn’t be you. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. She raided their settlements in shifts, staggering her kills from tribe to tribe, undiscriminating of their petty politics. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct.
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