Lion Head Mesa thamir alward

the time had come to announce to their neighbors what they were. ramesses wanted no teeth descending on their head. the mesa and its land were large enough to sustain their small band, and their point of focus would not just take joiners of any shade.
jawahir's scent rose.
pharaoh strode forward, eager for the promise of another afternoon whiled away, and stopped short.
a glowing porcelain seraphim! she stood muddied and stained as jawahir, though with more disgust. "what have you brought us, my sweet?" pharaoh intoned, drawing jawahir into his arms, pressing his lips to the haughty arch of her neck.
fascinated, to be sure, with the pale bit of flotsam. "you will be a princess here. the stuff of dreams, lovely one," pharaoh told the newcomer softly, marvelling.