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

He takes from the hare, humble and well-mannered. His were not the gruff gestures of the mazoi she’s grown accustomed to, and she wonders if it is for her benefit; he must be starving in spite of all this effort to restrain himself. Her gaze rests over the sage green of his eyes, the fine grey stubble of his face. The coyote in her had always found it necessary to compartmentalize wolf-kind, but she feels sudden shame for analyzing him so remorselessly. Eset allows the pressure in her chest to ease, hoping to encourage him by reaching for the spread.

“We are young; only a few months old. There is much more work to be done yet around the centoe,” she explains, “though we have made great progress since our inauguration last winter.” Eset is thoughtful. She had no designs to slow the growth of their claim. Muat-riya would be the most opulent palace in the realm, a temple of pleasure suited to Gods and their esteemed patrons.

“Yes,” she answers next, “Pharaoh Toula honored me with the position upon our founding. As hebsut she entrusts me to manage the palace in her stead.” There is a notable sense of acknowledgment in her words, her face imbuing with a pride she does not bury. Her Pharaoh had made more of her than she could have ever conceived possible. She is now a woman of significance; a facilitator for divinity.

“Were you born far from here, lord Stark?” Eset asks in return, feeling she has spoken far too much. Her teeth take a modest bite from the hare.