Wolf RPG

Legend, still out of commission. This left her only with @Khusobek, ever to her chagrin — she calls upon him anyway. Patrol was all she had said.
She would not stray far from her pharaoh-to-be, not for long; she parts from Toula with a murmured promise to return to her side before the sun is to curve across the cenote. She had left her under the vigilance of Eset — one of few whom she trusted in her absence.
She peels away from the border with the leather of a buck tossed hastily over her shoulders, the sky still a stream of indigo. We will go east for one hundred cubits, and then we will split. You go south, I go north.

He is, according to her observation, hammered. In moments such as this, Zaahira greatly wished she were as... simple as he.
She supposes he is decent enough company; a sounding board for the thoughts that continue to rattle her. She tugs the pelt over her head to accomodate for the swell of night-chill. Queen is to become pharaoh, if one looked closely, they could see the hint of a smirk curling one corner of her mouth. I look forward to her coronation.
You too have your eye on the women, a laugh breaches the monotone of her voice. Her thoughts roam to the curve of Eset's jaw; don't make the mistake of thinking I am good; and then to Selena. Selena. Selena does not haunt her in the same way she once did, and the realization makes her throat squeeze. I could only hope the same for myself.

He slings an arm over her and begins to spin a tale through half-intelligible words, and for a moment Zaahira wonders if he may start singing. Perhaps she should not send him southbound alone.
Ramesses. She knew that name, knew him to be pharaoh before Toula and before Makono; knew him to be their father. But she had not heard the name Hatshepsuun.
Ever so slowly she begins to peel herself from the curve of his arm. The thing I will say of Rashepses is that he does love her. I have seen it. His body. His eyes. And she him, too, and I hope that he will not ruin that for himself.
She did not think Toula would take kindly to having lesser women beneath her husband. And her people, as far as she knows, love her; the Gods love her! But she is young; naïve and untouched, in some way, despite the knowledge she holds beyond her years. Perhaps time will change her. She could only hope that it will not.
What of you, then, Khusobek? Do you see yourself with a wife, if the Gods and our pharaoh were to grant you one? she was not blind. More than a few times, there were hints of the palace's women upon his pelt. But would he take any of them? Or, more pressingly, would they take him?

Her faith laid in love. Too much of it, according to this hardened, feeble man beside her. A pointed insult. Was it so wrong of her, that desire? That instinctive urge?
Was it so wrong to believe there is a point to all of the trials? That all of this effort, this prayer, this longing, will someday work in her favor?
Some of us would only like to have something to look forward to. If I do not-- if I do not have faith, I will lose my mind. what was the point without it?
When it comes time to turn their separate ways, she, instead, veers him northward with a bump to his flank. In this state, alone, she fears he would get swallowed by the sand.
Such a miserable man he is. Zaahira almost thought to pity him, this creature of lust and sloth. She hisses out a sigh; the silence hangs thick, and she lowers her tone to something bordering the edge of maternal, even if she knew it would likely fall upon deaf ears. What makes you happy, mazoi? Truly. Maybe you should clean yourself up. Find a hobby.
Something stirs in a nearby shrub of brittlebush.

We do, a look of knowing; tentatively, a smile begins to crawl. but I would like to marry a woman. Have a family. Not-- not just let go of my worries for a night with a loveless fuck. Eset. A distant dream; one Zaahira thinks to be unattainable. And Selena, now lost to the great earth, to the Land of Reeds. But maybe that is only wishful thought.
She swallows dryly.
A life of service, a life below the heels of those who happened to have been born to certain people. She, at her core, a simple soldier — Khusobek too knew this. Lived it. There is still meaning and joy in service, you are not beneath Hatshepsuun anymore. you-- oh, shit.
She sees it. Them. Eyes, shimmering, dead; staring. A rangy, emaciated body. An ugly hiss rattles her skull.
A bobcat stumbles before them, and it is hungry.

zaahira dove first with an open mouth, lunging in open swiftness for the exposed flank as the cat scatters from khusobek's approach. the creature whirls to meet her, and before her eyes close, she sees claws that rake through the air toward her.
take the rear, the order came in a flash of panic. try to pin it.
a lash of hot pain and the strong scent of blood — onlookers would see a straight slice and beading crimson through her cheek. stumbling, filled with fervor, her teeth gnash in the hope of piercing the soft scruff.