Two Eyes Cenote is that it? are you not allowed to talk?

stark tries to keep his jaw off the floor, take in the rich qualities of the furs and sniffs, at first a bit suspiciously at the wine she offered; trying not to flinch at her calling him my lord, trying not to insist that she did not need to prepare his dinner for him. it all felt far too formal, far too heavy for something for him to bear upon his shoulders.

stranger still, for he took her to be a leader here even if she was not the pharaoh.

but he stills his tongue in the effort not to unintentionally insult. this was to be his home, this culture was to be his, his people.

he cast a glimpse 'round hard to find it lacking for anything. he'd have been happy with a roof over his head and a floor to sleep upon. this opulence leaves a heavy, perfumed taste on his tongue — or perhaps that was the wine he'd taken a drink of.

no, murmurs stark. this is nicer than anything i've ever had before. he says with a small, incredulous laugh, as if he couldn't quite believe it was true. thank you, eset. he adds and then hesitates, wondering if he was meant to call her by her name or something more formal. was — is it ok to call you by your name? or do you prefer my lady or your title hebsut?