There was heat and there was fire. And then there were hands and female voices. Shouts, screams, cries of the dying, pleas from the past.
There was blood, there was darkness, there was coldness in the depths of her soul.
Red hair slanted her emerald orbs, parted her soft moist lips as she spoke to her most trusted.
“Over there” she pointed to the brightest star far above the dense tree canopy “Like nothing you could have imagined a humble woman could have once posessed, a cache of of valuable artifacts belonging to her past”
Moonlight blocked by many bodies. Murmered voices.
“A gold medallion with it’s original chain. She wore it into many raids. She lost it a few times too” The red head chuckled.
“Regrettably the medallions face is damaged, she told me the artisan who crafted it fashioned a half crescent moon on it’s face. A reference to the name of the tribe pehaps” Red hair shrugged her shoulders, stirred the embers of the campfire with a stick “Who knows, she is no longer around to ask”
A voice asks if the artifacts are part of a burial ground.
Panther burial grounds are most uncommon another voice countered.
A plume of smoke from the camp fire floats to the forest canopy. Drifting away like the ghost of the woman’s tribe.
Then there is just the sound of the camp fire. Soft whispers. Time.