Lion Head Mesa [m] Elephantine

Ushered in by his voice alone—she stood, holding back the tremble of a paw and trying not to worry at her lip. Her eyes traced only the darkness of his paws—the stretch of his form leisurely spread upon the dais.

She had expected to discuss his children—his expectations of her. Instead, he spoke of an injury, and in her surprise, she found her her lilting iris eyes seeking out the shoulder in question, her mouth pressing into a small ‘o’ of surprise before she rallied.

“Of course, Semer-wati,” she murmured, and with a directive set, she turned, murmuring to another fellahin who whisked away at the request of some basic ingredients.

Looking up only momentarily to take in her surroundings—lavish—godly—she partially wished she could further study the things a man of such great beauty took comfort in, but instead she moved quietly closer, diminutive not just in her nature but feeling so very tiny in his presence.

Her eyes skimmed the shoulder, a small frown pulling at her features, a paw lifting tentatively to begin exploration of the muscle before abruptly pausing—pulling back. “I’m sorry—may I?”

It was then the other fellahin returned, and she murmured her gratitude. She mixed quietly—if she found it curious that he had requested her and not one of the palace doctors, she would never speak it aloud. A small salve was made with deft paws—nudging the tortoise shell which held her concoction closer for his inspection—oils, bergamot, aloe. “Do you have an aversion to strong scents, my lord?”