Hideaway Strath sarcophagus

the strath was filled with children and teeming with activity. it was almost exactly as yuelong had been, and ramesses again, thrown lowly where a man of his standing did not belong.
but he had been humbled by Amun, and led here.
scribe.
he felt as if he were drowning.
ramesses wandered the stone-studded fall of land that made the gates. here he caught their scents, now with his own, he supposed.
in his gut, the wanderlust absent.
nostrils flared, and he plodded grimly on, watching the water rush below. @Kynareth Deagon. grandmaster. far above pharaoh now, and yet the gold-dust creature found himself noble still. he had cleaned from himself the grime and the blood, and while his figure remained slight, ramesses felt that Iset had restored to him his beauty.
princely against the shadow of an afternoon sun.

Kynareth’s been thinking. Thinking about a lot of things and their newest addition has been one of them. The odd man had trespassed and for once Kynareth’s curiosity (and his Priestess’ suggestion) allowed him to spare this man a heart wrenching death to then be seated at their borders as another decoration among many. That man is lucky Kynareth thinks with his dick as much as his brain — good thing he’s easy on the eyes or the brindle brute probably would’ve been less likely to spare him. 

Still, his thoughts continue. Bouncing around in his head and constantly plaguing him. His curiosity must be sated, he wishes to know more of this mysterious man that wandered onto his turf. So as he moves, he catches his scent and follows it, moving swiftly around the territory in tow of this man’s seemingly aimless wandering. 

Until he sees him. Bright eyes raking down his pale fur, except the minor golden accents that the sun glints off beautifully. The dark fur lining the deepest, royal blue set of eyes he’s ever seen. He’s quite mesmerized. He hides it well as he trots up to him casually. Intentionally allowing his heavy footfalls to be heard to not spook him. He sidles close to him, but not uncomfortably so. Kyn can’t help the interest smile that crawls onto his maw as he eyes him down.

“How’s our newest addition doing now that he’s sober?” He jokes in that smooth, but deeply attractive voice of his.

kynareth was a man grown used to obedience.
ramesses heard the velvet rasp of the grandmaster as his eyes beheld the rolling gait of the giant warrior. a beast built from the cedars of lebanon, pharaoh mused himself; the sort of prizefighter upon which you set assured bets. more than blank malice or empty greed in the careful, cunning gaze. ramesses felt himself bisected, entrails turned over as if kynareth were a priest poking about with his intestines.
divining.
humour. a cold edge of it touched his own mouth. "more determined to serve the purpose that Amun has set for me."
scribe.
a wry expression crossing the pale sands of his face. "who keeps your lore here in the strath? your stories. the count of your edicts?" pharaoh continued, though he meant for his words to be a tease. 
it did not sit well with the prince that the grandmaster could crush him with a practiced ease.
and yet his voice could not help itself.

Kynareth watches him closely, his gaze is casual but curious. The man does the same to him — regards him carefully. They are but strangers to one another, but soon would be no more the longer Ramesses held a spot in his pack. After all, Kynareth’s able to find a purpose for all who join. He takes in the strays and gives them one even if they believe they have the inability to be useful. 

Yet when this one speaks, much like Vein, he mentions gods. The Grandmaster finds everyone else’s views on their own individual gods interesting. He does not believe in one himself, but he likes to see how one differentiates from another. This case is no different and even for a moment he wonders if this pale man has odd blood rituals just like his medic. 

He doesn’t speak yet though, it seems the other has more to say. His face is almost deadpan; it holds dry humor, just about as much as his voice does when he speaks next. At his words Kynareth raises his head and allows a bout of boisterous laughter pass through. Their scribes? The teller of their tales? Where do they keep it and do they have one? The brute understands the joke and he cannot help but joke back.

“Well, the bones at our borders do, of course.” He chuckles back easily. 

The Grandmaster is easy to speak to once one gets used to his intimidating stature and alpha position. His humor is quick to surface and he’s not easily offended, even when blatant disrespect is presented to him. 

“They make nice decorations, do they not, sweetheart?” He hums proudly. Looking in the direction of the northern entrance as if picturing the bones in his mind. 

The remains of a bear, two coyotes, and that poor shewolf they gutted. He reminisces on the tales for a moment with a smile.

“I was about to add you to them before my Priestess suggested otherwise. You should thank her sometime.” He hums easily back. Despite the threat of his words, his voice is carefree and conversational. He says the words easily like he’s said them many times before. 

“Why did your Gods bring you here?” He blurts out then. Perhaps Ramesses is wondering the same thing, but it’s worth trying for.

kynareth answered, but it was with sly words, not what the prince had asked. yet here ramesses was no more than a common labourer with a common rank. he chafed beneath this until the firm touch of Amun turned his heart toward the unspoken seed: humility.
"i will bring your priestess a gift," pharaoh said softly, irritated by kynareth's swift familiarity toward him. it seemed this land of saints demanded such; if one was not about to meet death at the hands of these wolves, they would be goaded with coldly affectionate language.
pharaoh did not understand, and nor did he wish to understand.
and yet, this knowledge would serve at least his survival. the grandmaster here to casually assure that this mortality was not something that belonged to pharaoh.
and to gain such, he must give in return.
ramesses tilted his gold-dust crown. "to find and to keep great histories. to make me less arrogant. more willing to serve." it sickened him to even form such words, and perhaps this showed in the way his gaze hardened toward the earth below their paws.

It seems the other contemplates something, or maybe he’s thinking about something. Still, Kynareth’s gaze is unwavering and those bright golden eyes never leave the others face. His next words make a smile appear on his maw. He would bring her a gift. He chuckles. Yes that woman deserves to be showered in gifts. His Priestess; an unwavering strong woman who has known impossible feats. His heart swells at the thought of her. 

“As you should.” The Grandmaster answers back with a single nod of his massive head. His voice isn’t particularly soft, but it isn’t hard either. A simple acknowledgment. He should give her a gift in exchange for his life and a spot in his pack. It is only right.

Still, Ramesses isn’t done yet. He finally answers as to why his gods sent him here. His answer makes Kyn smile then, it’s not a soft smile, but a knowing one. His words make him think about how Kynareth himself was knocked down a peg. Thrown off of his high horse and rolling into the dirty ground. His old pack. It seems he didn’t learn his lesson and he recovered well. Or well-ish. He is still his arrogant, cocky, sadistic self. Only now, he plays his pawns more carefully.

So he nods to him in understanding, watching as the others gaze meets the ground below them stubbornly. “Keep that fire.” He says then, voice horribly serious. “If you allow it to extinguish, you will fade right along side it. You will learn many things here; that we are merciless — we desire blood and war, but I am not a dictator to my brethren.” He pauses, watching him. “You do not serve me, you work alongside me. You are free to do as you wish and in return I desire loyalty.” 

a gift? what did ramesses have to give, save from his pride and a winning tangle in the — but she did not seem that type, or available in any regard. admiring the sacrilege of silently wanting the priestess before kynareth's very eyes, he shook himself back to the present. blood. war. desire. seti had not desired either of those things, only peace in his land and for his insipid daughter to follow him upon the throne.
i am pharaoh.
but this warrior of the abbey did not speak in terms of indentured servitude. it was the way of mercenaries, and their court had never been one understood by the spoilt prince. why seek a pittance for such labour when you could demand it as a god?
but he was neither, and nor did he have exotic tribute to offer.
"i am not a fighter, noble kynareth." the underling's voice was measured, watching for the moment when the grandmaster changed from cunning to cruel, a taskmaster's whip between those heavy teeth.
what fire did the man mean?
"but i do know the importance of remembering, and of strategy. i do not think you will be displeased."

I am not a fighter, Noble Kynareth. 

Those words and that voice make Kyn smirk for different reasons. His golden eyes watch him carefully, lips tilted up easily as the other explains what he’s actually good at. This doesn’t bother the Grandmaster though. After all, his pack has always thrives on the wayward souls that fueled it and he would get use out of them somehow — anyway he’s able to. Everyone’s good at something and if they’re not, a bit of persistence and training could always make them better. He’s not worried about it.

Kyn chuckles and nods. “Surely not.” He answers back. He knows the other won’t disappoint him and even if he does it’s not like he’d kick him out. Plenty of his pack mates have disappointed him on one occasion or another. 

“Don't be so uptight.” He hums then. “Sure, respect is necessary, but I’m not a dictator and I won’t kill you for a little mistake.” Then he smirks. “Unless you want me to of course.” Then he moves a little ways away after bumping his massive head to his shoulder in a type of goodbye. “Don’t be shy, go make some friends, peaches.” The Grandmaster chuckles back. “Call on me whenever you need, for the meantime, I will alert the pack of your arrival so they don’t eat you.” 

"very well, noble one," pharaoh accepted, dipping his head. 
oh, the chafe in him; starveling and riotous — to be dismissed! to be denied! lips twitched under his downturned crown.
he thought of the empress hua, pearlmilk sorceress enticing his flippant bones to the island. and brook, flighty and fanciful. ramesses, a man of a thousand dreams.
overrun the isle place with peasants, and now he too was one in some land far from the sea. far from hatshepsuun.
if he was needed for nothing else, the man would turn, wending stiffbacked and pride-injured into the forest, though he kept his shoulders low and tail slackened until he was well from kynareth's knowing, teasing stare.

Very well, noble one. Are the others last words to him before he offers one last smile and a curt nod of his head.

Leveling his head with his shoulders he picks up a loose trot and begins to decent into the forest beyond. He’s interested by the man, what’s to know more about him. He seems lost, he wants to include him. He wants to give him a purpose. Perhaps raise his spirits and confidence. Kynareth’s a merciless man, but for his pack, he cares. He would work on him, befriend him, just as he did the others. 

With that thought, he’s off. He would see him again soon.