She was awesome & she was human
“So”, begins the woodsman. He stops and stands there with a dry, empty mouth. It's better this way.
The girl shall deliver to the travellers of the Caucasus the coarse and lithic tale of the warrior who crossed the lands of men to climb, ascend & transcend the peak of Mingi Taw. She shall put her story out to pasture along with her sheep, she shall sharpen it on the rocks that dot the grassland, she shall feed it with the greenest weeds and she shall make it her own personal pitiful path.
Woeful, if allitteration is not high on her priorities.
She shall, then, tell of the martyr's black hair under the autumn sun and of the flickering waves of her reflection as she ran on the dream surface of a placid lake.
The girl shall not tell of that first eve of storm, as the Scythian lay nestled against the fire in their hut. She had dug her fingers deep into the dog's curly coat, clinging to it as the animal showed her patience in licking her early wounds. Their guest did not sleep on that first night, since she had heard Stories about the thin dreams of the Caucasus: she let her body rest and her eyes unfocus and took upon her the warmth of them simple folk.
The girl shall not betray the bleak and personal memory (personal for having witnessed the fact with her own eyes, bleak for having endured sharing it in silence) of how that warmth proved to be a necessary and sufficient condition to lead the Scythian up to the last step of her ordeal, but no further.
She can trust her companion. He will never offer anything more than a heartfelt “So”.