Lion Head Mesa Viper

The cool front of Eset seems to thaw upon Zaahira's own unraveling. Perhaps it was the wine that seeped into her veins and slowed the beat of her heart, or maybe the gentle grip of Eset's paw upon her foreleg, but the mazoi finds herself growing vulnerable. Softened, dangerously so, and as the golden-jewel of the fellahin's gaze locks so tenderly onto her own, she is unable to look away.
She speaks of Osiris, of Zaahira's trade; a sincerity to it, one that brings a drop to her shoulders. Her lip trembles. Let it be known that you do not need to please me, a sullen, velvety laugh. I do not ask anything of you. Even if it is your job. But to me, it is just that. A profession.
Head swimming in a pool of stars, she then mumbles, A woman has not touched me since she died.