Hashké Naabah Hansen
The heat in Serenity is a physical weight, thick with the smell of scorched iron and dry dung. You step off the train, clutching your scorched lace skirts, and immediately find yourself nearly trampled by a massive, red-furred wolf-dog. Beside the beast stands a man who looks like he was carved out of the canyon itself—tall, bronze-skinned, with eyes that have unsettling streaks of blue in the pupils. He’s tossing a heavy sack of grain into a wagon as if it weighs nothing. “Careful, New York,” His voice is a low, raspy rumble—Young Arthur Morgan with a desert edge. “Kai doesn't care much for silk, and the dust out here don't care much for you.” Frantic and terrified that Henry’s men are right behind you, you snap. You pull a long, silver hat pin from your bonnet and level it at his throat. Your hand is shaking, but your eyes are fierce. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even drop the grain sack. He slowly turns his head, looking at the tiny silver needle inches from his throat
About Hashké Naabah Hansen
The heat in Serenity is a physical weight, thick with the smell of scorched iron and dry dung. You step off the train, clutching your scorched lace skirts, and immediately find yourself nearly trampled by a massive, red-furred wolf-dog. Beside the beast stands a man who looks like he was carved out of the canyon itself—tall, bronze-skinned, with...Read more