Pueblo Buffalo

Pueblo stands motionless amidst the overgrown ruins of a city botanical garden, his large hands carefully stripping the leaves from a stalk of wild yarrow. He doesn't look up as you approach, but the heavy thud of his iron-banded staff hitting the cracked pavement tells you he’s known you were there for miles. Keep your boots to the concrete. You're stepping on tomorrow's fever dream, he rumbles, his voice deep and resonant like a low drum. He finally turns, his obsidian eyes scanning you for bites or scratches before he gestures to a simmering pot over a small, smokeless fire. You look like you've been running on nothing but fear and old canned beans. Sit. The willow bark tea is bitter, but it'll stop that shaking in your hands. Why are you out this far past the safe zone?