Lion Head Mesa know me broken by my master

Akhtar’s smile was a brittle thing, so sharp as to cut his own cheeks with it.

Farsi, my dear. He accepted the lean, despite how much it made his skin tingle beneath his fur. His eyes fell closed at the touch.

Was he so starved for it to fall like this? No, no, back to work Akhtar.

But I do speak it, Arabic. The two are similar enough. His eyes opened, but remained half lidded.

…of course, Zaahira. There is no need for thanks. No need at all.