Meadowlark Prairie eighty-third

for @Zaahira, @Legend, & @Machiavelli! sorry it took me so long to get this up; they were supposed to leave a while ago so i have made up that senmut was sick and needed to recuperate, ie blame him!

on the intinerary are brecheliant, yellowstone, raventhorpe, and then crossing over to the rsv! after that i have no concrete plans :O no posting order!

before dawn, the erpa-ha led a small contingent out into the prairie which provided much hunting to akashingo. he had spoken with pharaoh @Toula and her Consort @Rashepses; he sent word to muat-riya, knowing by way of legend that @Eset had gone upon her own excursion. khusobek would tend the red palace well, he felt.

i go to the valley of the rising sun in service to pharaoh, he wrote to @Nazli. it is my hope to shower you with riches when i return. the stars i will count each night and dream that you dance beneath their light.

now, a wide yawn almost split the high priest's head as he glanced back toward the mesa, still shrouded in velvet lavender and indigo shadows. "brecheliant first?" he asked of zaahira, experiencing a small pang in his chest to leave akashingo behind once more.

each carried their own packs; true to his word, senmut intended to travel lightly.

it frightened zaahira to leave akashingo vulnerable in her absence. she had instructed @Mesen-ka on what was necessary for pharaoh in her absence; even given rashepses her well wishes. the sphinx, at least, had earned her regard — things would be well. they had to be.
with her she carried herbs dipped in the wellspring and prayed over at sekhmet's altar, enough food for at least three days, and the pelt of a pronghorn she would use as a bedfur. the morning sun blazed over the mesa, which she looked back toward with one final, solemn glance.
they are closest, she says to the priest. but my hopes are the least high for them, at least in the soldier department. they are... rather soft, from what i hear.

The piebald man strode alongside the others, carrying an impressive array of supplies, made easier by the cleverly designed pouches he had received from the Moon people during his last expedition. From one pouch wafted the savory scent of dried food, while another held a container of shimmering powder, and still others carried gifts for the leaders of the packs they were visiting. Draped loosely over his splotched back was a soft pelt he used as bedding; he had not lied when he told Senmut he would not be "camping like a ruffian."

Why he had been invited on this trip was still a mystery. Perhaps he was simply there to serve as eye candy for the Red Priest striding ahead of him. Not that he minded—it was his job, and after all, what was the point of living in a place where his beauty wasn't appreciated?

Machi’s ears twitched as he listened to the conversation budding around him, the rhythmic padding of his companions' paws, and the occasional chirp of distant birds. With an unknown presence in the group, he planned to keep his opinions to himself unless asked directly. As they walked, he took a moment to admire the landscape—the coarse sand eventually fading into yellowing grassland, and the sky painted in purple hues.

With nothing but a hare that had been mauled by her own mouth, she drifted far. Stopping many, many feet behind them and bellied to the ground. Machiavelli joined them. Zaahira joined them. Dangling on a long chain with few intentions of returning to the masters until she felt the snap of their distance. 

And when it appeared she would not return, caught up to walk slowly beside their erpa-ha. Before Zaahira would nip her ears for slinking away, she offered apologies that came in her tongue swiping over her own lips and the vicious movements of her own tail. Even after so, her eyes, her ears, they could not stop darting their way around as scopes. Very rarely would they find her eye contact. She did not care to give it.