Luneshale Pass emotional torture

Iset and Horus. Zaahira's throat burns with something spiteful. She could not help but ask herself what madman deluded this marionette into thinking he held the same grace as the Gods.
The scoff is swallowed; he would never know her true disdain; and her gaze is returned to their path. The hemet-nekheb would never be so arrogant as to compare herself to those she worships.
Decidedly, these imbeciles who traipse across their land did not deserve her. He bores the mazoi with his feigned complexities and the wishy-washy silver-tongued attempt at making himself appealing; his image of regality only a mirage.
He is no God; he is no pharaoh. Gladly would she press her claws into his irises until they pop if Toula were only to let her.
Where do you come from, Rashepses?