Lion Head Mesa crook & flail

May Osiris help us, she remarks, eyelids fluttering to a close as she takes a deep, shaken inhale. It felt all the more real, now; Khaba was not far behind them. Surely he could hear the names of Akashingo's gods come from her tongue. He should resent her; the way she had so quickly abandoned him.
But he did not deserve her sympathy now, and perhaps he never did. Whether or not he hated her was not of importance.
The man beside her is hardened, bitter, a pill that dissolves on one's tongue too quickly. Curt, but not necessarily rude. He knows these gods well.
She wanted to ask what brought him to the palace, but that did not feel quite right. For all she knew, he was a King or perhaps a seasoned soldier, and she was merely misinformed. So when she turns to him, the firelight shimmering within a tangerine gaze, she instead says; He killed my lover, with a terse frown. so now I am here.
He did not ask, but she felt perhaps she should tell him anyway. It's not as if it mattered who knew and who did not anymore.