Lion Head Mesa Hear them mumblin' low

He will soon return again to the mountain, the gathered intelligence of his raven more pertinent than before. The young Queen and the Red Prince meant to move the Kingdom to war against the lake. It was all rather exciting!

But desert deshret are built for endurance, for elegance and beauty. Not for battle. So as he slithers into the deep shadows of the sandstone palace halls, he takes stock of their commonwealth, keeping one eye out for the Queen he has yet to meet, another for this dubious cousin.

he'd sat himself in the shade of an alcove, itself in the shade of the halls, panting so the tongue might cool the brain with the earthy below-ground air.

he'd seen the shadow - by accident, not some skill - and for a moment his heart skipped, thinking it jakoul- !

but no, t'was the newest addition to the mazoi ranks, imposing stranger with foreign airs - not to akashingo, but the wilds beyond it.

lion's head mesa served as a net, catching travellers before the wilderness could dissuade them.

gucci closed his mouth, although the little pink tongue still poked out. he gave the stranger a once-over, and decided this a good opportunity to prod at their character.

"mah-zoee!" he called. beckoned with a paw. "come 'ere."

It’s not at eye-level, but feet; a rounded fluffy oddity generated for decoration and all iterations of the word ‘cute’.

Teeth are a feature, nose holes and giant eye sockets so sunken and glistering low yet lively in halls that chattered with a speech heavily accented in the darkness.

With a ruffle of feather and a stare most intrigued he pools into the little dog’s hallway.

“Hrw nfr, master. Please, call me Sutekh,” He dips his darkened crown before reveling again at the refined little man. "And who do I have the honor of speaking with?"

sutekh. right foreign, as was guessed. 

the nobleman laid down on his side, resting fluffy cheek on dainty paw, tail's sways his makeshift fan. his expression was haughty, eyes half-closed as if inspecting the very threads god knit this man from.

and some man t'was. right jackalesque, of ambiguous breed, tall ears and slight figure, but nothing deviating from the core of a lupine. dusty black, dust as cape and helm, and eyes that were... mightsome unnerving.

but gucci wouldn't let it display.

"ah ain't took one step past th' gates since sky's got clear." he drawled, feigning a lack of interest in this intriguing man. "wha's it like out beyond?" beyond the mesa. beyond the hunting grounds and berry patches. far past the fields and forests.

how much had sutekh seen?

Little nameless pygmy invites acclaim and Seth will not retire this fascination as he presents himself with a dignified tuck of paw and too many rolling tawny folds. The jackal himself melts into lay, with a gentle arching of neck to align their eyes.

“What shall please our Master most to hear?” He purrs and marvels over a strange accent, not at all desert-bred but not without pleasing twang. And more so words that seek to probe at the state of things.

“There are whispers. Death to old Gods, birth of new ones. Life begets death and so on; the cycle turns in very much the way it always has. The world outside is unfailingly predictable, my Liege,” he holds long that vast gaze

“Oh but there must be a great bustle about the palace, with the young Pharaoh unaccounted for and the younger Queen seeking consort,” he plants, a fellow rouse.

“Surely there is an intriguing barrage of men prowling your palace passages?” His lips curl.

winding words what brushed by yet never touched a single truth. lots of pretty prose to say; jack all. 

gucci remained, in appearance, relaxed, although there was a pinch of annoyance at his brows and a feline thump to his fanning tail. his claws seemed then more worthy of attention, and the noble would've written off sutekh as a gibbering poet.

then came that question, and gucci, for days now suspectin' each man foreign or not of untoward intentions, smirked. 

ah see yer game, cottonmouth. 

the little man stretched his little arms, rolling then onto his belly, crossing paws at ankles.

mm, yis we's gat a real infestation on our pawsies. he grinned meanly. bachelors roostin' in th' eaves, sociopath sycophants 'n' ladies in waitin' nawt waitin' on their gosh-darn turns. an ear twitched.

such shame, nawt one a-them seems suited fer our young queen. the grin persisted.

There's the not-so-subtle implication that Sutekh vies for such a position. The little Master will not be first to assume it’s so, and certainly not the last. But this is not entirely out of his favor.

“Dread not, Master. My desires are not of the flesh,” he tolls while the lordling shimmies onto his spine, better to display a taut tum. “I am well satisfied with looking,” his jaws hinge to permit a low laugh.

“But will others say the same? The man Khusobek, perhaps. Will he seek to rise above his station?” He plants the seed with a tilt of muzzle, to hear what, if anything, that the little Master knows.

“It is a wonder then, to who My Liege deems ‘suited’? Perhaps the consort is here, within the sanctum already?” Then with teeth that beckon closer, "Perhaps a man of slight stature?"

his black-eyed look was dull as a hood, yet inwardly he chewed on every word. he took the man for a babbler, scheming sort, and stuck a note to the inside of his skull not to treat this wolf as another drab guardsman. keep him far away from the house of gucci, too.

the neb feigned shock.



oh! why wasn't ah jes' sah bright? he exaggerated surprise, like his six nips got blown clean off by the implication. why wouldn't 'er toddlin', yearlin' majesty consider man who's elder tah her late pa 'n' ma combined? why, ahm such canine adonis!

he threw his head back and cawed a laugh, aware how his folds of bountifulness bunched beneath the fur of his ruff.

gucci looked again at sutekh, expression again dull.

mah-zoi. ye wonder what that alligator man's gon' do? ah wonder too. so, he leaned toward the dust-of-hiding-places and gold-of-potent-bribes man. do us each sahm good, an' keep cuss-ah-beck in sight. he try 'n' pull sahm bold move? white-glowed toes stuck at the narrow snout. ya tell me first. ah been 'ere longer'n ya. speakin' proportionally, mah ears're bigger; ah heard 'n' seen how th' mesa tics. sahm brawny redcoat o' queenslands waltzes in? 'nless someone twists 'is ankle, we're 'boutta dance a different tune.

gucci leaned back, recrossed his paws.

pulled a grin over his face.

n trust me, mazoi, ye ain't gon' like th' rhytm.

“Oh come now, you tell me no part has entertained the idea?” His eyes widen.

“My, what a saint you are,” he grins, perching his paws atop the low mantle of the canine’s keep.

“This foreign Aunt perhaps deserves a visit from one of our own,” he muses. “If there’s a game to be played, why not Akashingo take the first move?” His muzzle tips.

"Very well, Master Dog. You will hear from me."

good. gucci was strict. now go on. git.

and when the shadow had blended into the redstone halls, gucci would let his apprehension melt.

"master dawg." he giggled to himself, rolling onto his back.