she is clueless, at first, to the company that joined her. racharra is far too focused on the wine red moon to notice — but she is well aware that absentmindedness could mean death in unfamiliar land and there was nothing more that racharra feared than solitude and death. she lingered in both.

traveling through deserts for so long teaches you to know when someone is watching — for the vultures pry for any chance of death. and they were patient things. they wait, and wait. and usually their patience is rewarded. though she fears it most, the noblewoman knows the sight and stench of death like family.
and this prickling sensation along her spine was much the same when the birds glared her down, hungry and mocking. at first she dismisses it as paranoia — a red moon would do that, she's sure — but when it becomes too much she breaks. tearing her own eyes away from the Goddess, its a futile search through the fog. standing and wandering would do nothing, the rolling golden hills once most beautiful and comforting lost to her in Nuit's anger. she beckons, a simple chuff disguises her nervousness. then the woman hardens, creasing her bows into deep grooves. she does not leave the safety of her shrine but she does come to a stand.

the deserts also teach you that you cannot trust yourself just as much as you couldn't trust the land. an oasis in the distance in reality a pile of bones and if lucky a puddle. and racharra would believe it if she had gone mad in the many, many months since that fateful day.
she has become more fragile than she thought. what a joke.