Lion Head Mesa know me broken by my master

He stands at attention at the sweep of her paw, feeling less himself as a puppet beneath her whims.

He wasn’t one to wish to be mauled. You see, while he had known many a priest willing to flay themselves or get flogged as penance (or, rather, a hastily explained away thing for being in pain, or being punished) Akhtar had always found it made him ill. Bruises, perhaps, he could stomach. Less so blood.

There was a far greater reason he had never attempted to become a medic.

That I do. He speaks, hoisting one brow towards the sky.

He’s not a hard fellow to please, the deathlord. I have always brought him pretty things, things they do not have in death, see? He reached down to a summer wildflower.

But death also delights in just that. Entrails and spilled blood. Fruits that resemble a heart, flayed open and bleeding onto your feet. He caught the stem of the flower between his toes, before reaching down to pluck it gently by its stem.

But some do not have the stomach for such things. Which is why I have always stuck to this. He was a man of scholarly pursuits more than anything, it was why he followed Toth.