Lion Head Mesa know me broken by my master

leaving semi-vague as the outcome of the war (and as such, zaahira's physical health) is still somewhat unknown, but i am going to assume that by this point she is recovering and settling into akashingo as a permanent member. this is AW, but i am looking to work on the spiritualist trade, so priests / priestesses are extra welcome! tags are for ref unless you feel so inclined to join <3

Since Queen @Toula had shown Zaahira the altar of Osiris, the aspwoman had begun to make regular trips to see Him, both with and without her. She took it upon herself to study Him, bring gifts to Him, spend time in His presence. Within His chamber, she found solace, a numbing agent for the sting of loss that seemed to permeate her every move.
It was exhausting, really. The nightmares never seemed to cease. Scarlet-spatter and the stench of it, the shale gaze of Khaba — I have betrayed no one, and I have stolen nothing. The feeling of @Akhtar and his skin beneath her claws. The anger was the force that drove her up until now, but she felt as if it had hit a wall. The war was over. Selena was still dead. Khaba was no longer her leader. There was nowhere else for the emotion to go.
It drove her to spar-training with fellow Mazoi where even if it was just a scrimmage, if she lost, it broke her all over again. To sitting silently at the arm of Toula's throne, stoic and red-eyed and mindlessly suspicious of those who met with her. To overeating and eating too little, the contents of her stomach emptied where no one would notice and the thinning of hips.
And it drove her furiously into a new religion when her old God had abandoned her.
Today, she seeks prayer; she seeks gifts for Osiris just on the edge of the meadow; a bed of penstemon that brushes her ribs, a handful of such flowers snug between her jaws. Her plan was to hand them off to a fellahin soon, or perhaps she would just do it herself. She felt she owed that much to Him.

winds up a pitch and chucks this man at u. Staying vague on him too!

The asp walked the meadows, and he watched her from a distance. He was an observant sort, the kind that reminded someone of a rat, constantly watching with beady little eyes. Or perhaps, the silken caress of snake scales.

The cobra slipped from his perch to join the woman silently, walking on cloud light feet to the meadow’s edge. He would not ask why she sought what she did, nor did he even really care to know. What she was doing was her business, what he did was his, but some would say it was his duty, in a way, to assist those of Akashingo. It would be noble of him.

He oh so did want to be noble, once.

The slinking form of the man stopped just outside of bite range, humming a low note to gain the woman’s attention if she hadn’t already clocked his approach.

Zaahira. She had not returned to his chambers, nor had she sought him, so their…togetherness was pushed to its own side for the time.

What do you search for? Perhaps I can help you find it.

!!!!!!!!

Zaahira knew that honey-golden voice anywhere. Silky smooth and rotten, dogged and rife with sins of old. Akhtar, she greets, though perhaps it was a warning.
One flame-scorched paw is cast out in a gesture towards the field. Priest, she quirks a brow, addressing him again with a lift of her chin. do you know what Osiris likes? I bring gifts.
It was an earnest question. For now, she would ignore the happenings of their previous meeting — though if her previous judgment of him had been correct, his eyes would be glowering at her in no time as if she were meat.
But if she had it her way, it would be him whose flesh was sunken into.

He stands at attention at the sweep of her paw, feeling less himself as a puppet beneath her whims.

He wasn’t one to wish to be mauled. You see, while he had known many a priest willing to flay themselves or get flogged as penance (or, rather, a hastily explained away thing for being in pain, or being punished) Akhtar had always found it made him ill. Bruises, perhaps, he could stomach. Less so blood.

There was a far greater reason he had never attempted to become a medic.

That I do. He speaks, hoisting one brow towards the sky.

He’s not a hard fellow to please, the deathlord. I have always brought him pretty things, things they do not have in death, see? He reached down to a summer wildflower.

But death also delights in just that. Entrails and spilled blood. Fruits that resemble a heart, flayed open and bleeding onto your feet. He caught the stem of the flower between his toes, before reaching down to pluck it gently by its stem.

But some do not have the stomach for such things. Which is why I have always stuck to this. He was a man of scholarly pursuits more than anything, it was why he followed Toth.

Fruit? that earns a head tilt from her, a curious flicker of light behind tangerine eyes. Where do I get, uh, death fruit? Again, a genuine inquiry — if there was anything she took seriously, it would be this. He makes a show out of it, and Lord, she is only a woman. She cannot help but be entranced by the languid movements of his wrist, the flower's simple life that had been ripped away by a Priest's hands.
All in the name of God. 
Pacing a good ways in front of him, she wanders deeper into the meadow, only stopping to snuffle at a patch of green flowers that had yet to bud. One paw digs at the pale dirt. Then, she turns to him with renewed desperation, a cold crease to her brows. Show me, Akhtar. I must talk to Selena.

Akhtar hummed, a gentle sort of noise.

I have only ever seen such a thing rarely. The ones that appear as hearts, that is. We may have some in the stores of the palace, I would have to check. He mused aloud, before looking to the woman.

His face dropped. His ears pulled back.

Zaahira, you must know. Osiris speaks through himself alone, or the voices of pharaohs past. I have asked many times to speak to those I have lost, but I. He swallowed. He looked away. He remembered the faces of those he loved and those he lost, the rolling of a heart across a stone floor. His scream, several years younger than now.

The priest pulled a delicate paw to his chest.

I never got to hear them. He looked up to Zaahira.

But I will not stop you the attempt. Incited, he turned and began striding for the stores.

Come! Let us see what we can find.

If there was ever a sentence to rip out a woman's heart and defile it, it would have been that. She should have been angry, furious, even; Toula had told her otherwise, she thought! But instead, her expression falters into a frown. Zaahira is sorry, she mutters with a shake of her head. He-- God Osiris give message, though, yes? Tell her I say hello? and even if the answer was no, she hoped he would say yes anyways.
Not that this matter was of any importance to the dog, however. He had little reason to give her that sliver of hope.
But he encourages her attempt, and offers the palace's stores to search for the Heart Fruit. Okay, is her simple answer, clutching her pickings of penstemon and following behind him in a trot.
She is quiet for a long while as they make their way back towards the tunnels. Her eyes are fixated on the ground in front of her, ignoring the silver-cloaked shoulders that jut out as Akhtar walks, the soft ears that drape the sides of his head. Priest, she says, then, what God do you worship? How many?

It is through no fault of your own. Merely mine. He shot a single glance over his shoulder.

I don’t see why he wouldn’t. He’s not a cruel god, Osiris. Merely..a guardian, of sorts. He was, perhaps, paraphrasing. He wasn’t the sort to be..avid, about death.

That had always been others. The jester’s odd daughter was a priest of Osiris, if he remembered correctly. Akhtar’s ears twitched, one delicate hair at a time, before he gently sighed out a noise.

I follow Toth, moon gambler, the god of knowledge. I have followed many gods over my life. But Toth is always the one who has..spoken to me, more than the others. For what do you need when you hunger for power, besides the knowledge of how to take it?

Akhtar indulges her.
Toth, she repeats, slow at first as the syllables rest on her tongue. The language of Akashingo is sharp, not unlike her mother's, and so it is much easier to her than Common. there are many Gods, yes? How many? Who are they?
She trots just a bit ahead of him in the dim light of Akashingo's tunnels, trying her best to locate the storage room based on appearance alone. She was, as she had begun to learn, not so good at that. A sophisticated place, the palace, and though the culture shock had slowly begun to ease, she did not know everything.
I want to know them all, she says to him. and choose to follow them.
For as of now, she had no God.

She listens, attentive as a pupil, and he cannot help but indulge in it.

Oh yes, quite a lot. He chuckles to himself at that.

But I believe we would be here all day should I explain to you all of them. Perhaps a conversation for another time. But, I can tell you of those I remember off the top of my head. He looks to the redstone walls.

Senmut worships Ra, the sun god. It is said he takes a great ship across the sky every day, which is the sun. And at night, his ship goes to the Duat, the underworld and home of the dead, where he must fight Apep, the serpent of chaos, every night for the sun to rise again.

There is another death god, too, many, but perhaps this one is important to you. Anubis, he is the caretaker of the dead, and oversees funerary practices. If Osiris will not carry your message, perhaps he will instead.

You may often hear speak of Horus. He is the falcon god, an arbiter of justice, and whom all pharaohs are descended from. Son of Osiris and Isis, goddess of motherhood and fertility, family. He is the king of kings.

Set is god of violence. Deserts and storms. It is he who is responsible for Osiris’s death.

Mother Sky and Father Ground. Nut and Geb fathered Osiris, Isis, Set, and Set’s wife Nephthys.

Khonshu is the god of the moon. It is said if you gamble enough of his moonlight away from him, you can create whole new days to add to the end of the year.

He licked his lips.

I will make the best attempt to remember more, but those are the easiest for me to remember.

Zaahira listens oh-so intently, hanging on every word. She is silent throughout.
And when he finishes, her lips crease in a hum. So many gods, each with purpose and meaning. They had all died for something, it seems, and Zaahira is eager to drink from the knowledge.
You are wise man, Akhtar, at that, something that appeared to be a grin, followed by a swivel of dark-tipped ears. I am no pupil, and you show me your ways as if I was.

And perhaps there was some implication there.

But now, her focus was drawn back to her surroundings. Her tail raises in an impatient flick, though her expression is otherwise telling of no emotion. Where are we going?

Mature Content Warning

This thread has been marked as mature. By reading and/or participating in this thread, you acknowledge that you are of age or have permission from your parents to do so.

The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Implications of abuses from Akhtar’s childhood!

Akhtar turned his face just so, looking past a long furred ear to the woman walking behind him. Then, he looked forward again with a soft chuff of a sound.

It is a joy, to teach. You may not be a pupil to me, but I do not mind sharing in the knowledge.

He was quiet, then.

The storerooms. We seek a plant with red skin, and something of a flower shape at its top. I have seen it sparingly, but perhaps Akashingo collects such in its stores. His claws clicked as he ducked into the catacombs. They would avoid the former Jodai’s cell this way, he knew.

He was quiet again. Only once did he speak again.

I did not have a good teacher. I rectify that by being better than he was. His skin twitched uncomfortably at the thought of the elder priest, at his screech of tone and just how hard he would hit should Akhtar mess up. 

He pushed the memories away. No need for that here, Akhtar. You were far away from that now.

A red skinned plant. Zaahira makes note of this with a nod. It is not something she had ever heard of, but she is hopeful no less, ducking beneath the shadows along the sandstone walls of the catacombs. She is quiet, only responding with absent vocalizations, until he speaks of himself.
A bad teacher. A bad priest, no less. Akhtar seldom shows emotion, but there is a twitch in the muscle of his shoulder that indicates there is more to that story than he lets on. She is not sure how exactly to respond to this, but her gaze is soft as dough; perhaps Akhtar would notice it.
Do you know why I come to Akashingo, Akhtar? she asks, then, a downward twinge to her features. Why I speak to Osiris?

He looked back over his shoulder as Zaahira spoke, one ear keeping a focus ahead as curiosity shone in his visible brown eye. The Saluki’s tail bobbed with his movement, even as he slowed it to walk in pace with the aspwoman.

I have wondered, perhaps. He was no fool, he knew she had come from the lake first, then to here. Why, he had considered, but never asked.

But it is not my place to ask that sort of invasive question, no?

It is not. But you did not ask, she quips, eyes of tangerine now locked on the terracotta below her feet. He did not ask. Nor did he probably care. So why did she feel the need to tell him?
But even still, she does not hesitate. She tells him of everything; Khaba's strong arms that plucked her right from the Blackfeather. Selena. The gold-gilded stranger and how he caused the cracks within Greatwater's structure to rift and rumble. Khaba's accessory — or more akin to demanding — of Selena's murder. How Zaahira tried so hard to defend her against the young nighthawk. How it didn't work. Legend, and the swell of confidence she gave her to leave.
And by the end of it, her accent slips. Word salad that hardly forms coherent sentences, the tension like a springtrap within the muscles of her face and body. Rotten, rotten, rotten. I hate him.
Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.
She finds her composure within the soft touch of her paw to his wrist.
My God died with her. I pray Osiris helps me.

Akhtar halted their progress with a flick of his tail and a turn of his body to hers. He listened, and he listened, and he was quiet through it all because he could not speak upon the grief of a woman who had been scorned.

The story pours out of her like sand, endless and stinging his eyes. He can feel it in the ebb and flow, in the accent of her words, the grief that drips from her like blood from an open wound. And he stood there without any sutures to close it, only able to hold a rag over it and pray it stopped before she bled out.

Her touch on his wrist spurs him into action, and the saluki dipped his head to press his nose to the top of hers, if only for a moment, so he can speak.

باشد که او در دنیا و آخرت محکوم شود. His mother tongue is as unfamiliar to him, and he feels a great sense of grief that he had so lost a connection to his homeland.

May he be condemned, in this life and the next. He raised his head back up, eyes solemn, but not pitying.

He will pay, be it by our pharaoh’s hand, or by Osiris’s own. His crimes will not go unpunished, Zaahira. I promise you. The hem looked away.

I will teach you death songs, hymns, ways to appease the death gods. And if Akhtar tried to bring forth his own divine wrath? Well, he was entitled to that.

forgive my probably terrible translator arabic

Akhtar listens. There is a silent compassion from him that Zaahira had not yet ever seen from him. She hears her own mother tongue from his lips. He will pay, he says.
Hal tatakalam allughat alearabia? A golden glow of light, although dim, is visible on her features. 'Ant ealaa haqi. Sawf yahkam ealayh 'Uwzuris. A frothiness to her voice, bitter and stinging with every ounce of pain she had endured in the passing months. Yes, he will pay.
He offers his knowledge, his hymns, his gifts for the Gods. Zaahira is eager, staring wide-eyed and giving a profuse nod. Yes, I would like that, Akhtar, a lean onto his shoulder. Thank you.
She had almost entirely forgotten about their search for the plant.

Akhtar’s smile was a brittle thing, so sharp as to cut his own cheeks with it.

Farsi, my dear. He accepted the lean, despite how much it made his skin tingle beneath his fur. His eyes fell closed at the touch.

Was he so starved for it to fall like this? No, no, back to work Akhtar.

But I do speak it, Arabic. The two are similar enough. His eyes opened, but remained half lidded.

…of course, Zaahira. There is no need for thanks. No need at all.

How foolish was she to have mistaken a tongue for her own. Oh. Clearly, her grip had been slipping much further than she previously thought.
Her eyes narrow; a breath, sucked in, held, pushed from her. We focus, yes? Red fruit?

***

One way or another, their destination is reached, and she noses her way around the store room; body languid and curious, tail flashing into a flag behind her. Together, they gather what is needed — little red fruit and all. Osiris will be pleased.
Or so she hopes, as she finds a place at the warmth of his altar, bundle of gifts now arranged at the base. With Akhtar as her guide, she begins to pray.
Tell Selena I am safe.

tacking a conclusion on here for trade purpises!