Lion Head Mesa Toiling

He did not look away, even as a shiver rolled through his lithe frame, though whether from the warmth of the priest's words or the chill of their implication, he could not say.

Then came the touch—a slide of Senmut’s paw along his jawline, drawing Isis closer to the precipice of something he did not fully understand. His breath hitched, the placid smile faltering as his lips parted slightly, his composure betrayed by the flicker of uncertainty and yearning that warred within him.

“I—” Isis began, but his voice faltered. He swallowed. Isis' jaw shifted beneath Senmut's touch, tilting slightly, his poise as elegant as ever but now layered with intent. Nose brushing the inside of the man's paw.

Timid.

"I will do whatever the Gods will of me." It is but a faint whisper upon his lip, dusting Senmut's paw.