Lion Head Mesa crook & flail

Khusobek did not inquire further about her loss. She did not want him to. Really, she was grateful; for once, she had not been looked at with the saucer-eyes of pity, of discomfort.
But what he did offer was talk of Osiris, and that made her soften.
He was murdered, too, yes? she thinks of Akhtar, of what he told her of Akashingo's scripture. By His brother. Set. her lower eyelid visibly twitches as she speaks, low and husky. She thinks of Khaba, of how he should perhaps learn from Set's wrongdoings — these were his gods, once.
I speak to Him, sometimes, Osiris, and then, a heavy sigh, slouching as she leans her back against the terracotta. I ask Him to tell her things. I think she would have liked Akashingo.
She lets the air fall silent. Man and woman, soldiers in arms, a shared goal. Her head tilts upward to the gilded ceiling before her eyes fall upon the Mazoi once more. Tell me, Khusobek, there's a flicker of intrigue, a raise of eyebrows. A burning, boiling question sits on the tip of her tongue. are you from here?