Aranyani has said nothing, received no visions. No news is good news.
The birds sing in the branches above him as he sheathes the spear in the holster strapped around his chest, and with a satisfied hum, he dumps the lid atop the aquatic haul.
“Shei luir.”
A familiar voice. He turns his head – the hair gathered at the nape of his neck in a bun quivers with the motion. The priestess is standing there, in her day gown, holding onto her staff. That sweet, coy smile he has come to appreciate is curving her lip, as always.