Sol jogged back into the square, the heavy water skins sloshing rhythmically against his back. His chest was heaving with legitimate exertion this time, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He was damp, disheveled, and smelled faintly of river mud… a deliberate choice he'd made to mask the musk of sex and sweat clinging to his skin.
"Water!" he announced, dropping the skins next to the pot with a heavy, wet thud. "Fresh from the stream."
Veyra looked up from the mountain of bones she was sorting. She was covered in grease and blood, her hair sticking up in angry spikes. She eyed his wet tunic and the mud streaked across his cheek.
"Took you long enough," she muttered, her eyes narrowing with a razor-sharp suspicion. "You look like you wrestled the river spirit. And why are you wet? Did you fall in?"
"Slippery bank," Sol lied smoothly, grabbing the ladle from a tired-looking Liora. "Mud everywhere. Had to wash off. Don't worry about it."
