Lion Head Mesa Hear them mumblin' low

Little nameless pygmy invites acclaim and Seth will not retire this fascination as he presents himself with a dignified tuck of paw and too many rolling tawny folds. The jackal himself melts into lay, with a gentle arching of neck to align their eyes.

“What shall please our Master most to hear?” He purrs and marvels over a strange accent, not at all desert-bred but not without pleasing twang. And more so words that seek to probe at the state of things.

“There are whispers. Death to old Gods, birth of new ones. Life begets death and so on; the cycle turns in very much the way it always has. The world outside is unfailingly predictable, my Liege,” he holds long that vast gaze

“Oh but there must be a great bustle about the palace, with the young Pharaoh unaccounted for and the younger Queen seeking consort,” he plants, a fellow rouse.

“Surely there is an intriguing barrage of men prowling your palace passages?” His lips curl.