Rosewater Oasis up in smoke

set for december 8th, 2024, for @Samirseti

even the blue palace was empty. when she'd approached the cenote though, she'd found no stragglers hiding. so, she'd moved on.

the desert was her home. her first memories were of scorching sun and ache in her feet from walking miles.
but she had a purpose then. but the god's fury stole that from her too.

racharra lumbered through the lowlands, waiting for something to save her — whether it be death or shelter.
the scent of others invades her senses suddenly, and lifting her gaze from the sands she finds an oasis. for now, she wad lucky.

parched tongue, but smart enough to not play with the patience of strangers. racharra kept to the fringes of this virgin land, and crooned a wearied call for whoever had claimed it. the dark girl straightened, and hoped her voyage hadn't robbed enough of her beauty.

the croon drifts over the oasis, stirring the stillness beneath the sun. from within the shade of date palms and reeds, samirseti emerges, his figure sleek and gilded by ra’s light. he moves like a whisper of wind, and he is whole, as he approaches.

he had smelled the approach of another through his lands, led by the light of ra, before he had seen her. and now, the panther strolls with liquid motions as he comes forth, revealing himself under the scorching rays of his sun. and his gaze narrows faintly, though his smile lingers—a thing half-welcoming, half-watching.

welcome, stranger, to the oasis of vahanet.

for a moment, she'd thought the man approaching her was the semer-wati himself. perhaps she dizzying under the heat. the man that approached was not @Rashepses, and any hope that lightened was quickly snuffed.

racharra bowed to him anyways, though she couldn't offer a smile. thank you, My Lord her lips quivered, still reeling from exhaustion. oh how dearly she wanted to burst outwards and dive into the man's oasis, but she could never stray from the red palace's teachings. she couldn't fail @Toula. her eyes watered. racharra stays low long enough to find her resolve again, before finally rising again.

I am nebushepset racharra of the redsands, master of secrets, and nebet of akashingo. she swallows a lump. my kingdom has been flooded... the weight of that day still had yet to truly leave her shoulders. ...i don't know who else survived.

tags are for reference

flooded?

the single word is like a blade cast down from the divine themselves. behind the panther's long frame, his tail lashes. he is a serpent coiling with unease; and if not unease, then panic. now, he steps closer to the famished woman, uncaring now as to her whereabouts. towering over her, his molten eyes blazing with a fire that no oasis could quench.

my uncle, rashepses—my aunt, toula—their children. the words tumble from his lips, each name carrying the weight of generations, of divinity bound by blood. tell me, racharra. do they live?

now, frantic.

memories of a life within ta-senet with @Rashepses flood the mind. days spent up to no good with his uncle, hours of lessons in life and rule. teachings of the will of their shared golden blood. there is kinship there. a bond that stands the test of time.

the veneer of composure he so often wears now cracks, revealing the raw undercurrent of familial devotion, of fear for the divine bloodline that binds him to the red sands.

the brightness of his fire is a contrast the dull golden hues of her own. glassy, devoid of life.

i.. i don't know. they weren't with the ones fleeing. her eyes water again, thinking of the young royals. would they get to spread their wings? i wasn't able to reach them.

her half-siblings, too. did they survive? where was taliba now? she never got to tell her of their sisterhood. the woman could crumple in to herself.

you do not know.

his voice trails off. from the once confident bravado it carried, to something lower, deeper, sadder. he speaks as if there is gravel stuck in his throat. for a moment, he looks at the girl as if she is useless.

useless to him.

but then his anger subsides. reasonable sense tells him that it is not her fault. this... tragedy was not her doing. it was the doing of the god's. and so, with an incline of his head, the man moves. long legs carrying him away, but not without the flick of a long tail to beckon her follow.

he does not look back as he speaks, his voice steady, though it is the steadiness of a dam holding back a flood. come, racharra. we cannot linger here. the gods’ wrath have shaken the red sands. it will not claim us. you are one of the fortunate.

his tone softens, just enough to temper the edge of command with something gentler. and if they live—if my blood, my family, still walks this earth—they will be found. you have my word, as pharaonic keeper of the lotus sands; bid by she who has achieved ma’at herself. and he speaks again, now, the mutterings of a man driven mad by what has been robbed of him. a man who must rise through the soaked floodwaters that stains red with the blood of the divine. if the blood of the red sands is gone, then the weight of the gods falls upon me alone. their whispers echo louder now, binding me tighter to their will. if rashepses, if toula, if their young flames have been snuffed out by the desert's wrath, then i am what remains. the last ember of the divine bloodline, the final tether between the gods and this earth.

the gods do not mourn; they demand. creation and destruction are their tools, their gifts, and their punishments. now, it is samirseti who remains to shoulder their commands. the chosen. the blessed. the cursed. the weight of their expectations settles heavily upon his gilded shoulders, yet he does not crumble. for who else could rise in the wake of such ruin? who else could claim the title meant only for the divine? he is pharaoh of pharaohs, bound to their purpose, and there is no other.

he casts her with scorn. even in her grief, she doesn't quiver. her eyes are locked with his, witnessing the flurry of emotions that wracked her new pharoah.

she too, was the last of the red sands. but only by name. chosen daughter of toula. for now, the only daughter that walked the waking world, and the only daughter who wasn't divine. he speaks too much of blood for her to dare correct him. what would it matter, anyways. there was nothing to her name. nothing, except for the duty assigned to her since she began blossoming.

she forgives his prattling when they reach the crystalline waters of the oasis. cool against her tongue, the nebet guzzled the waters. soaked dark fur hung below her chin.

thank you, Divine One. it stung to say such words to a man as arrogant as this one. for your generosity, even in the face of tragedy. she murmured, head low in another bow. how humiliating it was to grovel.

he scoffs, now, and with a wave of a black paw he bids: do not bow. his arrogant voice is quieter now, burdened with something heavier. as much as he might have enjoyed her groveling some other day, this is not the time for such curtsies.

he turns his head away, looking out over the crystalline waters of the oasis.

this is the time to mourn, he says, more to himself than to her. carefully, slowly, he allows himself to recline into a leisurely lounge; chin resting upon his ring of ebony fur. to share prayer. to seek the favor of the gods. to ask them to forgive the godheads of akashingo—for whatever slight they have been punished for.

the gentle lapping of water seems to mock the turbulence within him. without turning to her, he murmurs, drink your fill, nebet racharra. it is the least i can offer.

she rose on command, and stood as he waxed poetic. she'd mourned enough, and she certainly wouldn't do it in front of him.

but she would pray. pray, pray, that these past few days were just a dream, or a vision of what could happen if she were to fail. that was just wishful thinking, however.

the curves of her eyes sharp and elegant as meet samirseti. though sorrow dulled their once vibrant color, racharra was a noblewoman first and foremost. pupil to the finest and most elegant of women.
i will, Divine One. i'll pray that we find them.

and now she would be a noblewoman of vahanet.

i cant do a prayer rn bc i need this for her master ambassador trade LMFAO

LMAOOOO

pray, nebet racharra, he murmurs, carrying the weight of a hundred lifetimes, each word a command, a prophecy. pray to the ones who demand blood for their blessings, fire for their favor. they have taken much, but they have not taken everything. we will find what remains.

the glow of the crystalline waters casts a faint shimmer upon his dark pelt, a divine halo, a mark of his birthright—or so he believes. the gods have spared you for a reason,

he rises then, to his paws, and turns. turns to leave her. he will spare her his presence, now. may she be alone, as he wishes to be, and turn eye to the future before them.