Lion Head Mesa fist & jaw

“Yes, my Lord,” a stiff nod acknowledges Khusobek's request.

Then over Zahiira she will linger, the tenderness in the woman's bright twin flames coaxing thoughtful consideration. The Mazoi means kindness, but the fellahin will not rue her menial task, for she is out of the slums and in a palace.

“I serve willingly, my lady,” She promises, a shallow smile curling her lips. Her work will resume, lathering first the Mazoi’s shoulders then down across her chest, massaging away the blood. She keeps an eye on the woman, gauging her pressure discreetly by the look of pleasure on her face.

“Very much,” her response comes clipped between grooming. “Our Queen is lovely. I am proud to be of service to her.” It's an automated answer, though is not untrue.

She lowers her muzzle into the pool and skims it over the wolf’s spine, allowing the warm water to seep into her fur. She grazes her tongue gently beneath her jaw, ridding her pelt of any final trace of war.

Once satisfied with the woman's gleam, she bends beside her, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mazoi?”