Lion Head Mesa יַקִיר

AW but perhaps a @Rashepses? :O

he was getting used to this place, and it frightened him.
most of the folk he had met thus far either looked at him with jaded, hardened eyes, or as if he was only meat upon bones. the priest man carried an air of royalty even if he was not, and at least had the decency to greet him with respect — a part of the sheltered core softened for him, even if only by a fraction. the rest of them, however; well.
he wonders if the true royals are anything at all like their rather uppity townspeople. he wonders if he will smell minya upon them.
heat clings to his brow as he skitters through the courtyard, a small bundle of newly harvested roots held in a small palm-frond pouch. the throne room appears to be vacant; the delicately decorated walls call to him like a siren. he'd never been in there.
slinking down into the entryway, he makes no effort to hide his path as he hesitantly begins to skulk inside. nothing like minya, no, not at all, and yet a shiver of recognition slides down his spine until it reaches the tip of his tail. he moves to examine the intricate paintings and carvings, gingerly reaching out to run a slender forepaw along the ridges of the sandstone as if the entire mesa may crumble beneath his touch.
he wonders if the royals feel this way too.