Lion Head Mesa For the record, if I don't make it out of here, don't put me down for mummification.

He was alone for moments, it felt like. A breath. A beat of his cold-blooded heart, at best. There came a shape at the door and Harakhte turned to witness the arrival of someone tall-eared; he thought, do my fellahin not listen? A moment of idling frustration. It was gone as swift as it arrived, as he realized it was the Lady come to wait upon him! She brought a meal; this was below her station, surely.
A kindness, already! He began to praise.
There was another who came swiftly after. This one he had never seen before — but their like, which populated the lower echelons of the world, he was intimately familiar with. The stilt-legged woman was of course, a servant. They came and bowed, and had words to spare.
A name, a vast title, and orders not only for the Lady, but the prince! How mighty this amiir must be to think it wise to command guests in this way. He only smiled that same toothsome, warm look he had spared beneath the arch.
If the Lady would forgive my departure, he murmured for the nebet, as he swept carefully around her and the offering, to the door. The awaiting fellahin would lead him to this queen-apparent; as he moved, he made no attempt to tidy himself, and would arrive in a state of rugged disarray.
Once outside the throne room, the prince would wait.