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

Erpa-ha has told me to look to Sekhmet for guidance, Zaahira explains, breath drawn sharply inward. Aliki. Khaba. so that is what I will do.
A trip to the stores, first; down the halls and past the winding shadow of the catacombs. There, she seeks her supplies; the tooth of a deer, a dried scarlet rose, the pelt of a hare.
Daybreak warms her shoulders as she leads the hemet to Selena's grave; eternally beside the rushing serpent. Beside it lies a second, smaller pile of silt and clay, shaped crudely in the form of a pillar. Here.
Together, they will display them; Zaahira guides the golden wrist, her choice of gifts lined along the base of the pillar. They join voices, then, in prayer.

Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.
Mine is a heart of corneal, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.
I am the broken wax seal on my lover’s letters.
I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.
I pace the halls of the Duat.
I knock on the doors of death.
I wander into the fields to stare at the sun and lie in the grass, ripe as a fig.
The souls of the gods are with me.
They hum like flies in my ears.
I will what I will.
Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.

Shaking, renewed, Zaahira allows Melody to depart with a soft whisper of thank you. She stares at the shadowed grave for a time, and thinks of how much time has already passed.

tacked a conclusion on here for trade purposes!