Lion Head Mesa You're a faded moon, stuck on a little hot mess

making so many assumptions pls call me out if i am wrong

Zaahira was not an an intruder. She kept to herself in these winding redstone halls, privacy considered a sacred thing that should be cradled and kept like a soft-skinned baby.
After all, Akashingo was the only place she had ever had such a luxury. In the Lake, Khaba was everywhere. He had eyes within the hills, within the water, deep in the branches of trees. His embrace was strong.
Today, glistening with the arid heat of midsommar afternoon from a recent training session, the mazoi walks the halls of the priests and priestesses. They are beautifully decorated, in some ways in better shape than the mazoi barracks. She seeks Akhtar, or anyone, really; whoever can give her advice.
For today, she will work on her altar for Sekhmet. That is the way Aliki will be brought to justice, it seems.
A golden-laced silhouette catches her eye, a figure within a room splattered in paint of blues and yellows. Curiously, against her better judgment, she peers inside with a point of her nose. Excuse me? a gentle call for the sleeping woman. I am sorry to bother. You are hemet?