Valley of Gold the drake

with the arrival of the newcomer, the tension shifts. rawer, almost. it simmers beneath his fur, searing itself into his flesh as his gaze shifts. no longer pointed, as the vision of a man slinks closer. 

for a moment, he wonders if a demi-god was grace to walk before him. a man with the beauty that could only be gifted by aphrodite, carrying himself with the power and grace of zeus. ikaros' eyes go wide, and is it awe that flash within them? 

black and a gold he'd never seen before. kissed by it, as if he bore the curse if midas. his throat tightens—he feels...

unworthy. skittish.

the brute of a man who'd led him here demands he bow. ikaros swore once, a long time ago, that he would never bow to anyone again. 

and yet, he must. he does not bite, he does not spit venom. he bows. 

a pharaoh, a god...but isn't he just a man? glorified and put upon a pedestal? worshipped by false prophets who spew blasphemy? 

it does not matter. his gaze averts, as if just looking at this vision of a man scorched him. he does not speak, for what words could he say that would appease a pharaoh?