Lion Head Mesa sackcloth

The autumn maid would not meet his eye, but this did not dissuade him. In fact, Arsenio seemed to take a small amount of delight in the curious behavior of the stranger. In such close quarters, he could smell the foreign fragrances that still hung upon her fur, the scents from faraway. This was an indicator that the timid woman was new, she had come from somewhere outside of the mesa.

Do not turn your head, I am only a hired fang, Arsenio instructed her, shrugging. He was not the Pharaoh; he was not even important enough to be inside of the queen’s bedchambers while she slept. Still, he found pleasure in knowing that the mystery shrouding his purpose was not so easily burned away. A ypirétria is no threat. Not one that the misthofóros would have taken seriously.

The stiffness of his shoulders eased some. Where have you traveled from? Are you Egyptian? A servant of Pharaoh?