Two Eyes Cenote is that it? are you not allowed to talk?

he wanders through the lowlands, his sense of direction disoriented and left wondering as he traverses the strange desert-like lands at night when the air is cool and the stars map out his way.

even if he is uncertain where the stars are guiding him to; but that was half of the adventure, stark assures himself. it was an attempt to soothe the self-doubt that had seeded itself within his mind, making its home in his chest. a sinking, blackhole of a vortex that would devour him if he let it.

so, he pushes it aside. or, he tries to.

his steps slow as the scent of pack grows in strength, the scents of many coalescing into one of unity. he drinks in the scents with flared nostrils, finding none familiar ( but of course he wouldn't! ) and sweeps his pale green gaze for any sign of guardian come to greet him.

a hairsbreadth of a moment; a quick rapid-fire decision made.

he tips his head back and raises his voice in a short to-the-point howl, announcing his presence at their borders.

if nothing else, maybe he could get directions.

She steps through the cenote in swift, neat movements, hastily answering the summons.  Receiving visitors from off the low desert had become a routine affair, most requiring a few day’s provisions and rest before setting out again.

The evening air is cool on her nape as she passes through the threshold of the palace to meet the caller. He is a taller wolf with weight to him, these differences in their statures causing the coywolf’s stomach to twist sharply. But through the dusk she can see how his eyes are emerald and his face youthful, and with effort she drives the unease from her mind.

“Welcome to the palace of Muat-riya, reign of Pharaoh Muat-riya Isetnofret, Goddess of the red serpent,” she greets, arching herself into a courteous bow. "How may I help you?"

the woman that greets him is waif-ish, draped in a pelage of dark chocolate and caramel browns. there is a palpable air of importance about her that stark can see, even as she launches into a verbose greeting that does not paint her as the pharaoh she mentions.

stark offers her a slow blink, confused by the courteous bow she offers him.

i — for the first time since he started to learn how to speak he is speechless.

wow, that was a lot of words. determined to regain his proverbial footing again, he feels the uncomfortable urge to fill the silences: never one to sit in them. uh hi, he dips his head in turn, a little awkwardly unsure how he was meant to react.

in the first minute of this encounter, this has not been like any border interception he's been in before. i'm stark, he introduces himself and shifts his weight. i was hoping for some directions — to where? he didn't know. nanoq had warned him he was going to the wilds to chase ghosts, that none of the apaata's remained. but it wasn't just about finding lost family. it was carving out a niche for himself that wasn't leftovers from one of his siblings.

a place to see what he could do when he took the training wheels off and had room to tinker. to explore. to grow.

or maybe a place to stay. i mean, definitely a place to stay — sharp canines bite into his tongue; stilling it from the rapid-fire default of his words. do you have a name? or should i call you walking thesaurus? he is teasing, tone light and grin boyish as it tugs haplessly at his lips.

stark, always the reckless, prodigal son. the one that lacked captain and sedna's prim and proper filter. never thinking before he spoke, and bypassing the reading of the room.

he does not know her, nor her him. but bold has always been his nature, for better or worse. and his quips have been known to get him in trouble many times: and he bore the scar for it beneath his left eye.

She rises and looks across the sand towards the man, her face maintaining its quiet seriousness. The first sensation is an offense that trickles up into her throat on behalf of Pharaoh- Toula who is deserving of all the accolades bestowed! But he fixes her in earnest and his smile is easy; he seems innocuous enough. She blinks and begins to relax.

“Eset,” one brow flares into a curve, “I trust you can manage that?” Her voice challenges but at the corner of her mouth is a small, furtive smile.

“You are welcome to stay in Muat-riya. I will escort you through the palace,” the hebsut offers with a wave of paw in invitation for him to follow.

“What is your name?” She asks while they walk.

if she took offense to his nickname, she did well to hide it. to stark's surprise, she rises to meet his quip with a challenge in her tone, laced with her words that has a small thrill slithering along the curve of his spine. i can probably manage that — he murmurs; subdued.

eset. he tests it out, letting the syllables lift and roll off his tongue.

stark. my name is stark. he reminds her; telling himself that his first introduction had gotten lost in the chaotic storm of words and possible, almost offenses he committed.

he hesitates for only a second before following after her, gaze sweeping across the palace walls, like an archaeologist discovering a lost queen's tomb; mirroring the same awe.

so, muat-riya, stark begins. what's it like? what are the expectations set for me?

She appreciates the way Stark admires the palace, the way he is silent and attentive when she points out the different rooms and their uses. They pass through the vast nave filled with its cooling pools and glittering gemstone walls of lapis and quartz. She skims over their work of art, a measure of pride welling within her chest. It was elegant and radiant, and still her eyes found that there was much yet to be done.

“All of this is a monument to our Pharaoh, Toula,” Eset explains, “she lives in the high desert with her Consort and summers here in the pleasure palace. Many of us travel back and forth between the two regularly, so I’m certain you will meet her soon.”

“It is expected that you respect our Gods, even if you do not choose to worship them. Everyone contributes to the operations of the palace, so you will be required to take a rank here.” She leads him towards the rim of one twin cenote, its surface reflecting the moonlight like glass. There she turns to regard him again.

“Do you have any particular strengths, Stark?” Of course, she could see he was athletic. His hide bore the marks of former altercations, the telling brand of a warrior. But it did not necessarily deem him a soldier. He was given a choice here, as Toula gave to her.

the pharaoh's name was toula, he comes to learn, and that she summers here. while it's a bit of a strange concept, he had heard of packs branching off before. in a way, this sounds like something like that except with a central leader whose word was law over both packs.

i can navigate the night by the stars, though a skill, he wasn't sure how much use it would be to the pharaoh. and i can fight.

The stars. In the brevity of a breath, she remembers Melody.

“Perhaps joining the priesthood would interest you. Our own hemet, Nazli, is a student of the goddess of cosmos, Nwt.” Her eyes trail from the composure of Stark’s face out toward the rippling piscinas. The corridors are peacefully quiet and light from sconced starlight shimmers against the blue walls.

“We are in need of soldiers and hunters," Eset admits next. "Muat-riya grows, we've had four hungry pups born to our halls this year-  and I expect there will be more to come.”

priesthood. him?

though the idea of a goddess of the cosmos was absolutely intriguing to him, stark isn't so sure he is cut of the same cloth that made priests. for one, he was hardly pious. and, and, and —

i wouldn't mind learning about this goddess of the cosmos and will definitely be seeking this nazli out to do so, his admission begins. ...my nature is more suited to the role of soldier. and stark sees no use in trying to hide who he was. though he could be scholarly, certainly, he had been molded into a fighter: by his father, by his mother, by the constant, ceaseless fights with his siblings.

His chosen role was made clear in the assurance of his voice.

“Fight for us,” Eset says, stepping forward, “serve our Pharaoh. Defend our home as mazoi; warrior of the blue palace.”

Us. Let him feel that the ownership of such a place was held in the palm of every palatial resident, no matter their rank.

“You will work alongside Khusobek. There are two more guardians who patrol Pharaoh’s residence in the North. In time you will meet them. I am the hebsut,” she explains, “I oversee the operations here. If you have any questions, come to me.”

For now Eset would show Stark to his room within Muat-riya’s gleaming barracks, outfitted with all the furs, wines, and finery afforded by the region’s ruler.

she bestows upon him a title of mazoi; a warrior. a protector of this mysterious pharaoh eset continues mentioning. his pharaoh, now, he supposes; this ownership confirmed when she uses the term 'us', placing weight upon it.

to drive it home to him.

though stark thinks that he sticks out a bit like a sore thumb here, he wonders if assimilating would be easy for him. or if he would always be ostentatiously visible as someone who didn't entirely belong.

time would tell.

he offers a small noise of affirmation, that he understood before he focuses on picking out landmarks to help him find his way as he follows her.

She prepares a cape hare and wine for his dinner while the new mazoi is offered a look about his chamber. It is fairly sized, and though nothing elaborate, there is a small cavity in the limestone where moonlight pours in.

“Please, take the evening to rest, my lord,” she passes Stark a drink and retreats to the arched stone entryway.

“Is there anything else I may bring to add to the comfort of your room?”

stark tries to keep his jaw off the floor, take in the rich qualities of the furs and sniffs, at first a bit suspiciously at the wine she offered; trying not to flinch at her calling him my lord, trying not to insist that she did not need to prepare his dinner for him. it all felt far too formal, far too heavy for something for him to bear upon his shoulders.

stranger still, for he took her to be a leader here even if she was not the pharaoh.

but he stills his tongue in the effort not to unintentionally insult. this was to be his home, this culture was to be his, his people.

he cast a glimpse 'round hard to find it lacking for anything. he'd have been happy with a roof over his head and a floor to sleep upon. this opulence leaves a heavy, perfumed taste on his tongue — or perhaps that was the wine he'd taken a drink of.

no, murmurs stark. this is nicer than anything i've ever had before. he says with a small, incredulous laugh, as if he couldn't quite believe it was true. thank you, eset. he adds and then hesitates, wondering if he was meant to call her by her name or something more formal. was — is it ok to call you by your name? or do you prefer my lady or your title hebsut?

She likes watching his face, the way it lights up when he takes notice of the lavish furnishings and stock of pelts draping the stone subcrop of his bed. Through his eyes she relives those initial moments in Akashingo, the abundance of herbs stocked in Tavina’s medical bay, and the detailed fresco murals that line the gilded hallways of the redstone palace. Before then she’d have never dreamed up such affluence.

But now knowing that the twin palaces exist- how could one choose to live anywhere else?

Her eyes are steady over Stark’s. A small smile curves her lips and she bows her head to the floor once more in gratitude.

“Just Eset.”

stark's throat works to release the breath held captive in it, gaze soft and awespun as he looks 'round once more and finds her gaze steady on him; struggling to push back the instinct to divert it. out of the natural hierarchy of rank he is used to despite that those laws don't seem to necessarily apply here and for the soft heat rising in his cheeks.

eset. he repeats her name decisively, trying to shrug off the lingering doubt that it was too informal.

he gives a soft clear of his throat and studies the rich drink and food. would you care to join me? he asks, hesitantly, unsure if it was impolite to ask such things or not. with any luck, he would learn the do's and don't's of his new culture sooner rather than later.

The offer makes her pause beneath the threshold of his room, a stunned expression hidden by the turn of her back. She hates that suspicion is the first to arise in her mind.

She doesn’t know Stark; she doesn’t know his origins or the tenets that raised him. There were few in Shuyet who would see her mixed blood and view her as anything other than a courtesan.

But she was no longer in Shuyet, and she was no longer a serf. She was hebsut, mistress of the blue palace, a woman of substance. She crafted the board; she aligned the pieces; she played the game.

And so Eset turns to face the graystone man, accepting his invitation with a grateful nod, and settles into a seat.

“Thank you, for the invitation. I’d be honored to join you.” She looks across the spread at him. He does not strike her as a man from the desert, and now her curiosity begs to know more, but she waits respectfully for his first move before daring to lob such questions.

stark thought she would decline the offer; he cannot see her face but he suspects there is a hesitance there. and though his intentions were good: a desire to get to know her better and learn more about the culture of the home he sworn himself to! he cannot blame her if she was hesitant. his pride had no place being prickled by it.

the moments seem to stretch on for ever until she turns back around and accepts it.

he is surprised and does not bother schooling it from his face, taking a few steps back to allow her, her choice from the spread she'd lain out first.

how long has muat-riya been here? have you always been it's hebsut? he volleys a few questions at her as he moves to take from the meats she's lain out, being sure to give her, her space and not crowd it. it is a little hard given his size, but he tries to make himself smaller in this space all the same.

He takes from the hare, humble and well-mannered. His were not the gruff gestures of the mazoi she’s grown accustomed to, and she wonders if it is for her benefit; he must be starving in spite of all this effort to restrain himself. Her gaze rests over the sage green of his eyes, the fine grey stubble of his face. The coyote in her had always found it necessary to compartmentalize wolf-kind, but she feels sudden shame for analyzing him so remorselessly. Eset allows the pressure in her chest to ease, hoping to encourage him by reaching for the spread.

“We are young; only a few months old. There is much more work to be done yet around the centoe,” she explains, “though we have made great progress since our inauguration last winter.” Eset is thoughtful. She had no designs to slow the growth of their claim. Muat-riya would be the most opulent palace in the realm, a temple of pleasure suited to Gods and their esteemed patrons.

“Yes,” she answers next, “Pharaoh Toula honored me with the position upon our founding. As hebsut she entrusts me to manage the palace in her stead.” There is a notable sense of acknowledgment in her words, her face imbuing with a pride she does not bury. Her Pharaoh had made more of her than she could have ever conceived possible. She is now a woman of significance; a facilitator for divinity.

“Were you born far from here, lord Stark?” Eset asks in return, feeling she has spoken far too much. Her teeth take a modest bite from the hare.

it is something of a balm to know that despite that their culture is rich — and to a newcomer green behind the ears: overwhelming — that this pack is still new. he takes small mindful bites not wanting to eat like a heathen in front of her.

a small sip of wine is taken, content to hear her speak about this place, and offering an answer to what he has asked but not much more.

intentional? or not? stark wonders.

not too far. it was about a week's travel from here, he hedges. my father was born in these wilds and settled a little bit outside them in a place he called greyjaw hollow. i suspect he kept close though, in case he wanted to come back. or maybe it was so one of us might find ourselves curious and find our way here. like me goes unsaid but nests itself into his words all the same.

he is hungrier than he'd first though and polished off his hare quicker than he'd meant to and cleans his jowls a bit sheepishly, lowering to a sphinx-like position of relaxation, though his gaze is clear and focused as it settled back upon her.

were you born to this culture?

She listens in quiet engagement, imagining how it would be to have a legacy like that. To have family names, and a lineage. To be able to trace history back to certain people, and locations, and cultures. To fill in all the unwritten parts of oneself.

“Muat-riya is indebted to your father. He is the reason you are here now,” her eyes hold warmly over Stark. She takes another bite as he settles upon the stone. Her chewing slows as his next question is raised. The hebsut swallows firmly before answering.

“Yes, not too far from here, a little village in the east,” so naturally it comes to her, the same lie she’d been telling for nearly a year. “Though I do not miss it. I am very fortunate to be where I am, now.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Why stars?” she asks briskly, eager to turn the subject once more. “Where did your interest come from?”

if her words are meant to flatter: they hit their mark. stark can feel his cheeks flush with heat, that makes him insanely glad that he has fur and she cannot see the blush that would've colored his cheeks otherwise. but it lingers in the gleam of his apple green gaze, tell-tale in other ways.

why stars?

why indeed.

they are useful tools of navigation at night, but of course, the ability to use them as such relied on having skies clear enough to chart them. and then there are the constellations, great beasts of legend and gods, their stories carved into the sky. it was poetic and he enjoyed them, even if poetry and stories were at odds with his made-nature.

would he not have been forced down a warrior's path as a child, needing to be the strongest of his litter because he was not the favored by either parent, his path would be entirely different.

this ... obsession of knowledge, of collecting stories and mythologies is why i am eager to learn more about yours and your people's. his people now, he mentally corrects himself. another sip of wine taken, peering at her through lowered lashes.

do you have a favorite god or goddess? he asks, trading question for question.

Stark’s mouth lifts into a smile, his cool green eyes flushing with emotion. Eset’s own imbues with a gentle understanding she does not often share with the other residents; new or old.

“I know so little about the stars,” the coywolf confesses with a grin, “they’ve always been beautiful, but you make them sound thrilling.” To share such an intensity, a pursuit, and a love for works was a rare thing. The way he speaks of the constellations as the sky artwork of the Gods- his obsession- she feels herself warming towards the man. When the question is turned back on her Eset’s eyes gleam.

“I do; Hathor," the name is voiced with tender acclaim. "She is the deity of lovers and femininity; dancing and beauty. But she is also a goddess who changes her form to suit the call of the hour- a warrior, when she needs to be.” A furtive smile plays at the corner of her mouth, dimpling her dark cheeks.

“Like you, I am indebted. Hathor led me to Her Holiness. She is the reason I am here.”

stark is quiet, allowing himself this small moment of vulnerability where he shares his deepest poetic thoughts with her. maybe, he considers, it is possible to be both things at once: mazoi and celestial navigator, teaching their stories and their songs and collecting more as he goes.

attentive, stark listens as eset speaks of hathor, naming her the goddess of lovers, femininity, dancing and beauty; but a warrior.

i see, stark draws, thinking that plenty of those things have started wars and ended them. She sounds very interesting. he collects what she has shared with him about hathor, wondering if he might find a patron god or goddess to follow closely.

or rather, if a god or goddess might chose him.

our pharaoh ... how is one expected to act in Her presence? i guess what i'm asking is what is the proper etiquette? last thing stark wanted to do was accidentally insult her.

‘Our’, he’d said, and she peers at him gratefully. Already the mazoi was keen on taking ownership of his position here in Muat-riya. It proved to the hebsut just how much he cared about their customs and respected their home.

“She is a Goddess living among mortals; our link to the godhead. She is worshiped in the same way we would any other God. It is appropriate to use her proper titles: Holy one, divine, majesty, highness, and to bow upon greeting. But do not let it worry you, lord Stark. Pharaoh Toula is a goodhearted ruler. Understanding. She would not reprimand for innocent mistakes- especially from those still learning the courtesies of her culture.” Though Eset was growing confident that Stark was too diligent to succumb to a careless slip-up.

She could not say the same of Rashepses, however. Something about the consort set her on edge, though she’d never witnessed cruelty first-hand. He had the look of one who wields the lash.

“You will adjust in no time,” she offers reassurance in a flicker of sunlit eyes.

though it has been but an hour or so since he'd joined their ranks, it is easy to feel at home here. perhaps it is the perfumed decor of his rooms, or simply stark's own desire to fit in, to have finally found a place where he could having come from a home where he was in constant competition with his siblings.

to have shed their cloying, choking shadows and have a chance to find out who he is when he is not in constant competitive mode already feels promising.

so, he lets himself be comforted and seduced even if a whole pantheon of new gods — including the pharaoh herself! — feels a bit daunting.

i appreciate your confidence in me, eset and i hope to prove it well founded. a small, last bite is taken followed by the wine to wash it down, small droplets of wine dribbling down his chin. finally, the mazoi has run out of questions for her.