Lion Head Mesa kenamun ☆

a soft spoken prayer, unintelligible yet recognizable. it's late, but there is never a bad time for prayer — she thinks so, anyways. she couldn't judge either way; she's also up for far longer than she should've. it's not the prayer that gets racharra's attention, but the voice that hums it.

but the noble girl keeps her lips shut as she peeks her head into the temporary chamber of the hemet. the smell of incense wafts into her nose, tempting a sneeze. her nose never took kindly to the smell of it, no matter how relaxing she tried to convince herself it was. but it's sacred, so she'd have to deal with it more often than not.

now at the arch of the bedroom, a plea trembles out from nazli and racharra hears it clearly. a blessing? what could she need? is she that worried about the travel back to Muat-riya? the milk thistle smears across the blue belly of the hemet from the reed, highlighted only by moonlight. and the nebet is left bewildered as to what it could possibly mean.

i need those spiritualist/missionary threads, i hope im not too late

 

if only my heart were as cold as i pretend it is.
maybe i could get over this

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