Lion Head Mesa Viper

@Zaahira

 

The daylit palace is a place of worship, venerated corridors tolling with the soft utterance of prayer and smoke of incense. At night it’s second skin is shed as tradesmen take to their wine and drink to the labors of another day. Drunken chatter sweeps around them as Eset prepares Zaahira’s drink, a bowl brimming with sweet, crimson liquid. Then they pass into the darkness, weaving their way towards the Mazoi’s chambers.

The palace is a winding network of sandstone passageways, a labyrinth she is learning under Tuna’s instruction. But eventually they will find Zaahira’s room.

She enters and places the bowl down before stepping aside, allowing the Mazoi to first settle then awaiting further instruction.

The palace is more alive at night, at times.
Men roar with testosterone and alcohol, drowning their sorrows and begging the Gods to shield their eyes. Akashingo should be lit red with neon signs.
Carefully, Zaahira guides the fellahin through the passageways; she points out the chambers of people she should come to know, the paths that lead to the catacombs where their prisoner lies, shrouded in shadow. They daunted her when she had first arrived, and now, she knows them like the back of her hand.
Coming upon the aspwoman's quarters, she comes down to a sit in the room that still lays mostly empty. It is hollow, perhaps a bit depressing; but decoration was not one of her specialties.
Come, sit with me, she invites, a warmth to her tone that had not been there in the wellspring. Apprehensively, she takes a paw and nudges the woven bowl of mahogany liquid towards her companion. You may drink, if you would like. I know not everyone is fond of wine.

She watches as the Mazoi seats herself, an elegance to her step. Eset will place herself to the woman’s left, posture politely mirrored.

Wine is offered, as it often is. There is something in mutual indulgence that stays the nerves, perhaps they feel guilt is allayed if they believed Eset enjoying herself. She is accustomed to sipping wine and fluffing ego. It is her job.

But there is something genuine in the Mazoi’s look, a gentleness in her timbre and voice that allows her a choice, that sets her apart.

“After you, my Lady,” She ushers with her maw for the woman to drink. Then she will take a sip, though careful never to feel its effects in full.

She studies the woman. Zaahira is not like the others. In her care Eset is reminded in part of the Doctor she’s quickly endeared to.

“You are kind, Zaahira,” she will whisper. "Thank you."

Zaahira would not drink heavily, either. The loss of control frightened her; she did not want to know what she would say, what tragedies would be spilled to this poor girl if lines were blurred and the burn of wine in her throat spurred her onward. As far as Eset knew, Zaahira was a woman of Akashingo. Nothing more, nothing less; no past, no future.
She is slow as she laps at the beverage. It is lukewarm and sweet, and she dabs away the stains with the back of her wrist.
You are kind, she is told, and at that, a purr of laughter. It is only basic decency. You need not thank me, Eset. She thinks of Tuna, then, the kind coyotegirl who had been there for her since the beginning. Tuna was no simple servant; nor was Eset.
The silence falls over them like a warm blanket as the mazoi's eyes trail from a wide-set face dipped in ash to nimble, dainty legs. The heat finds her face again. When was the last time she had been alone with a woman like this?
Tell me, Eset, another slow sip, the flavors swirling inside her mouth. what brings you to Akashingo? We all have our stories.

The Mazoi’s eyes lingers- it is then she will understand and think of the way the warrior had shuddered beneath her touch; of Khusobke’s knowing smile. She wonders if this is what Zaahira desires of her, to serve a carnal purpose. She will not divert the woman’s gaze but lower her lips for a second sip, eyes abiding with the tawny woman’s. This too is her role. She has pleasured much worse than a silk-sleek warrior.

“Opportunity,” is her response. “I have served a master before, though never a palace. Never a Queen.” Measured, and yet remaining truthful. Of bygone days she will not speak.

“And you, my Lady? You are quite skillful. Have you learned here in Akashingo?”

She seeks opportunity. She is vague, a song and dance around the truth of her history. She understood this; at times, she did the same. Though she cannot imagine their struggles had been anywhere near similar.
At mention of the Queen, of her own history, there's a pause before her lips part in speech. The Hemet-nekheb is a good woman. Truly, to her soul, there's genuine fondness in every word that rolls from her foreign tongue. she took me in at a time of need. A month ago, just before the war. I serve her to the best of my abilities. for devotion is all that Zaahira truly knows.
There's a knowingness to the way Eset looks at her now, and a brief wash of fear overtakes her in shades of watercolor blue. She had never been slighted for her previous lover being a woman, but was it secretly looked down upon? Or did Eset think her as the kind who would request such service from her — not as a genuine connection, but as an escort?
She does not press this matter and instead averts her gaze. I am training to become a warrior. I hope to reach the position of yaret, or jodai someday. another pause, and then, I am also learning to worship Osiris.

A nod in accord as her spoken title summons the face of the sovereign Toula. Golden; merciful. A goddess to one day ascend. They share in this perception of the Queen, there is true honor in serving a ruler she could respect, one who cared not just for the eternal plane but mortal souls in kind.

But something is retreating in the woman, was it shame in the turn of her face? Gently the fellahin will life a paw to offer the wine, to will the warrior’s eyes upon her again, tips of her paw smoothing over the other’s arm.

She likes to hear Zaahira speak, on a tongue strange but pleasing in how it twists certain vowels. She likes to listen to her plans of advancement, to advocate for her position here within the walls of the kingdom.

“I believe you shall,” she smiles. “You have will, and truly that is what one needs.”

But her lips soften when it is Osiris’ name given. The Lord of Death symbolizes many things, though most importantly of hope for new life after one’s end.

“You are hurting,” comes the concern, quicker than her rank can constrain.

Eset offers her the wine herself, and Zaahira willingly laps at it. A stronger sip, this time, the burn flooding her throat as she swallows. She is praised; this brings a thin smile, a humble one.
The ghost of worn-down nails against her arm brings another shudder, and when the aspwoman looks to her again, there is the coolness of shame.
My lover was murdered, it comes out softly, plainly; a fact of life. I seek mentorship from Akhtar and the Hemet-nekheb herself so that I may still speak to her.
Her. She swallows the implication like a dull knife. It is not something she has ever shied away from, but now—
I am... trying to move on. Focus on my craft. At that, she offers another closed-mouth smile, laced with melancholy. But it is okay. You did not come here to listen to my woes.

“How cruel,” she breathes, and so young to know such pain. Again Tavina’s face flushes in her mind. Another loss, another foregone lover. Is this the fate that awaits the women of Akashingo? Unbidden, she clutches what she can of Zaahira, her paw reaching across the bowl of wine to hold her forearm.

Too much passes over the warrior, but grief and shame clearly. Women will not lie with each other in her native land, though such a concept is not taboo for Eset, and not, she imagines, for the realm of Akashingo either. And perhaps Zaahira will know this too, in the way she stays close; a consolation of tender strokes not withheld.

The warrior takes Osiris as her patron god. He will care for her lover, she believes, until the two are reunited in the great field of reeds beyond this mortal world. This is a vision Eset will take to her prayer, to keep the Mazoi in her devotion with the Gods.

“I come to listen, my Lady,” she consoles, “to ensure you are well provided here. To please. Not just as a fellahin- as a friend.” Her eyes search the woman's.

"You honor your lover-not only in your worship, but in your trade. You see nothing like that will happen again."

The fellahin thinks, if she had been Zaahira's lover, she would be quite proud of that.

The cool front of Eset seems to thaw upon Zaahira's own unraveling. Perhaps it was the wine that seeped into her veins and slowed the beat of her heart, or maybe the gentle grip of Eset's paw upon her foreleg, but the mazoi finds herself growing vulnerable. Softened, dangerously so, and as the golden-jewel of the fellahin's gaze locks so tenderly onto her own, she is unable to look away.
She speaks of Osiris, of Zaahira's trade; a sincerity to it, one that brings a drop to her shoulders. Her lip trembles. Let it be known that you do not need to please me, a sullen, velvety laugh. I do not ask anything of you. Even if it is your job. But to me, it is just that. A profession.
Head swimming in a pool of stars, she then mumbles, A woman has not touched me since she died.

“It is my profession, too,” comes her steady breath, still holding the woman’s arm.

The warrior must know the sentiment behind her own words. She must understand the fellahin’s role here, in Akshingo, is to serve the masses. The power dynamic at play. Though she cannot know how precious a thing it is for Eset to maintain, how important it is to cultivate an esteemed reputation here. To stay in the palace.

And it is this that draws her eyes to the warrior, spinning an illusion as she has done before- to make them forget if only for an evening.

“Would this please you Zaahira, to be touched?” To her cheek she raises her paw, offering her everything. She need only ask.

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A swallow, hard and encircling her now tightened throat.
It is your profession, yes, she repeats. How badly she wished to reach out, to wrap spindly arms around her waist and allow the night to carry them away. but I am not a man. I am not a predator. Her voice fizzles into a whisper, a willowy husk that rings out in the desert air.
A fellahin. It would not be, by any means, against the word of Akashingo to engage; to allow this. Encouraged by palace law, even. But she thinks of Khaba, of how his lips graced every woman who surrounded him in his lair, and the thought of coming anywhere close to such a lecherous, beastly act made her stomach twist.
Zaahira has the upper hand. Normally, this would have pleased her; if it were for fun, perhaps she would revel in it. But this is not for fun — a difference of class, a forbidden fruit, a potential abuse of power.
She feels almost monstrous.
I do not wish to exploit you, Eset, an utterance, shaking, tongue between teeth. I could not live with myself if I caused you harm. If I used my own position for pleasure.
But she cannot help herself. The touch of her cheek draws her forward, and instinctively, she melts into it. Do you want it? Truly. You do not have to say yes just because it is your job. another slowly drawn breath. The only thing I will command of you is honesty.

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: sexual themes

Honesty has never done Eset any good.

Zaahira means well, but she is a stranger. One who outranks her, as are the others she has lain with. When the Mazoi reaches for her it’s out of a desire for closeness, to feel something. Eset has never taken a lover under such terms. There is no emotion in her act, there is only a sequence of events.

But this is not what they want to hear, and if she is good, there is no way for them to know it. Zaahira has her craft. Eset has her’s, too.

But all this is kept close to the chest, where only there it will remain, except, perhaps, in the passing looks exchanged among fellahin.

She looks at the warrior with compassion, bracing her as gathers close. “If it is honesty you desire of me, My Lady,” she chances, “Hold me as long as you wish. But it will not bring her back to you.”

She had asked for honesty and it blew right back in her face.
Hold me as long as you wish, but it will not bring her back to you.
An unexpected condescension to it; which, for a moment, Zaahira presumed was because she was preventing Eset from doing her job. But that did not ease the weight of it, the crush of pure white pain that snarls across her features and collapses her lungs. Her face contorts; anger and then disdain and then regret and then an encapsulating anhedonia that crawls with spiderling legs up into her her very soul and builds a home there.
Immediately, she draws back. The desire washes away in a murky wave of green water.
She should have never said anything.
An ugly, ugly silence, and then, I understand why you fear letting me in, fear was not the right word — refusal might have been more fitting. Eset has a job that she would like to keep, and she would fight for it tooth and nail for reasons Zaahira did not know, but respected.
But still, the trembles would not cease; enrapturing, wave after wave, violent. A sharp, glassy look to the fellahin. And then, sourly, I will not touch you. I am no liar. I am sorry I am not your ideal clientelle.

She falls back with a cry!

The sudden ferocity of Zaahira’s features, the way her body convulses, she shrinks before the snarl, eyes holding wide to attend her delivery sealed in venom.

Her heart pounds for the passing of several breaths, shock falling to despair.

Half will wish to run! And still another will want to reach for her- to stroke and soothe and tell her she is not wrong. That she is different from her ideal clientele only because she wants love. Something Eset cannot give.

She pushes to her paws, standing in quivering silence, debating what to do. But there is not a way to make this right for the grieving woman; for the ashamed one.

Silently she slips from the room, down the hall and out into the sink of midnight dark, glossy eyes reflecting the low light of moon.

Over her shoulder there stands the palace, it’s walled catacombs less promising in the absence of sun.

ty for the thread!! <333 i LOVED it even if it ended up being sad lolol i cannot wait to see more of eset!!

Eset does not say anything. Merely stares, wide-eyed, and leaves. Not a trace of her left in Zaahira's room save for the bittersweet smell of her pelt and what remained of the wine.
As soon as she believes the girl is no longer within earshot, her shoulders slump forward as unrepentant sobs rock her slim frame. Crawling to the furs that make her bed, she pulls the bowl of wine to her chest and swallows the remainder in one big gulp, maroon dribbling down her chin and mingling with the glass-eyed tears.
She had learned that if she drinks enough, the dreams of Selena become vivid, lively enough for her to feel her touch. But tonight, there are no dreams at all; she is alone even there.