Lion Head Mesa Voice of man

He’d known from the summer prior that the Head of the Lion gleamed in the height of Ra’s sun, but the last stretch to the mesa was made at night when the sky was pitch-dark and the fellahin strode ahead to light their path. The air was warm and a saturation of energy forbade him sleep. He caught his lover’s mouth in an impassioned kiss and a promise to seek her that evening before turning to lose himself in the twist of red palatial hallways.

Here the stone was smoothed by centuries of hallowed paws, perhaps never so raven-sleek and lacquered gold as he. Rashepses loomed beneath every archway and admired each architectural detail. Passersby were favored with the glint of an eye and a rise of maw but he exchanged no causeries. Down he strode until his paws met the banks of the wellspring and he slid through the hot water. He sprawled himself out in the shallows, toying with the trim of a lilly as serving girls washed his back and gently combed through travelworn snags.

His neck arched contentedly, but his mind slipped out across the flatlands for the mountain. Sated by the newness of his bride, it was the rise of Mereo which again sifted through his thoughts.