Lion Head Mesa do not assess a man who has nothing, and thus falsify your pen

@Legend @Zaahira @Khusobek
For any one, or all of you!

He has heard of the mazoi. Warriors, soldiers. A reminder of home.

Wandering the halls in silence, he has hopes to meet those that hold this rank and learn of what expectations Akashingo holds for their trusted guardians.

There are steps in the halls of the barracks. Heavy; foreign to her ears.
She had been asleep just before an evening shift when she'd taken notice. Peering from her bedchamber and into the sandstone passage, she sees him. A new arrival to the red sands — there were many, as of late. This one, she guessed, was here to seek the Queen's hand.
But if so, what was he doing here? Why would he bother with the mazoi?
She chuffs in greeting, slithering out from her post and into the open, a bedfur slung over her shoulders.

One emerges. A greeting, they offer, and one he gave in return.

My apologies if I have disturbed— It was not intention to be a bother. Whispered words tell of the valiant mazoi these sands offer. I thought it only right to meet them for myself. 

A commander's eye observed this one, watchful, but not yet of judgement. Much is unknown, but the keys of which may unlock what he seeks are within reach.

Interesting.
I am mazoi, she then confirms with a prideful jut of her chest. He stands before one of the warriors that which he seeks; but what did he want? Was he simply curious, or was there more to this?
Zaahira's gaze shifts. Attentive; prying. May I assist you?

From where I come, we are many warriors, much like you mazoi. My father is king and commander. Such is my life, as his heir. 

Pausing for a moment, he studies her, wondering of her thoughts on his words. Whether they mattered, or if she would simply pass them off.

Continuing— Here, in a place I know little of, I thought it might be beneficial to familiarize myself with those I relate to most.

Kings, heirs, homeland; nonsense to the aspwoman. She cared not for anyone of any political prowess that was not her Queen. She feigns interest with a slow nod.
Additionally, he speaks to her as if she is stupid. Another point against him in her weathered mental notebook.
Instead, she sheds her bedfur before stepping fully into the hall. Come, she directs; not an order, but not a question either. She saunters past him, a sway to her hips. I will show you training grounds. Perhaps you would like to observe, or take part in a spar. Some other mazoi may be there now.

She does not seem overly impressed, but such is not what he desires. 

When the offer comes to venture to the training grounds, he would not refuse, turning to follow after the woman.

I have not sparred since my travels first began. It would be nice to change that. He spoke to her back, now considering the opportunity in full.

These days, Zaahira spoke of Akashingo as if she had always been there. With the smooth, high-shouldered strut she carries herself in, she offered no indication of anything but regality. A hint of a smile is cast over her shoulder as she rounds a corner. You will find that us mazoi are very dutiful. Worthy opponents, preening, searching. I aspire for yaret. Eventually, jodai, should the Queen find me deserving. Head of mazoi. because their former one had not exactly worked out, had he?

Worthy opponents, she saw them. How could he expect any less? All here seemed keen to their roles and well able to perform them. Why should these mazoi be any different?

You seem beffiting the role. He chided, having seen how she held herself in manner. That alone was a likely characteristic of a leader. But, of course, it would all come down to the young Queen. As all did. He wouldn't think it otherwise. 

You are very devoted to her. He suddenly added. Most here seemed to be, which he thought rather fascinating. Many times before he had seen kingdoms and empires crumble because none were truly loyal, thus causing their demise. But this one was different. It made him begin to think he'd picked the right place after all.

Perhaps he is buttering her up, or perhaps he is merely being courteous. That is up to her and our erpa-ha. The one who, if Khusobek was right, may or may not hold the throne in the not-so distant future.
Senmut as pharaoh. She could not make much sense of the thought.
I would gladly kill for her just as I would die for her. and she meant it, she meant it; she gives him a passing, unreadable glance that said perhaps he was not spared from such a notion.
The redstone corridors are long and tedious, though Zaahira had spent an entire summer memorizing them, assimilating. She leads him expertly to the training grounds and finds that they are empty, save for a fellahin that sits along the wall.
Her lips curl. I will go easy on you.

Undoubted loyalty. Such things he was always pleased to see, especially from those who may someday serve him as well. 

When they arrived to the grounds, she readied herself. But when she suggested going easy on him, Thutmose couldn't help the coy grin that slithered unto his facade. 

I should hope you would do no such thing. He mused, shoulders rolling in preparation. Ready to receive her all, just as he was prepared to give his.

i am simple and tabletop confuses me lolol so would u mind if we just wing it? <3

He does not seek an easy fight. She could only hope he hadn't expected one.
Coming to a stance not unlike the one she had taken with Naberius, knees bent, paws firmly planted upon the dusty clay beneath, she waits. Her gaze searches him already for what would be her first target; a hunger, left unsated.
But above all, she would allow him the first move.

The mazoi, smaller than he. It could only be expected that he would use the difference in size to his advantage. But this is not how he would first engage this spar.

Charging her quickly, he slid past her flank, body drifting until his muzzle was in line with her left hind limb. Outward his jaws snapped, teeth angling for a sharp jab upon the ankle. 

A missed target would keep him sliding. While a successful one might just drag her along with him. The result, either way, excited him. He was eager to know just how formidable she truly was, and starting off with such aggression would surely wake the fire in her that he so desperately wanted to witness.

How typical, she thought; where Naberius had been methodical and quick, a dancer as opposed to an iron fist, this one sought power.
And she was not about to give it to him.
He aims for her ankle with a hurtle forwards, and she narrowly dodges with a swift duck and a dart off to his side like a mouse scrambling from a cat's claws. A snarl ripples from her chest. Too close!
This called for a more wild tactic. This called for teeth.
Her jaws fiercely snap for his neck and shoulders as her own lunge is made, springing on her hind legs to place nimble forelegs upon his back, an effort to bring him to the ground. Outwardly haphazard, but her eyes burn with knowing.

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Ah, there it is. The ferocity. The desire for the power that she refuses to bestow upon her opponents. A true challenge, and a worthy adversary. 

He misses, but he enjoys it nonetheless. She is a woman who knows how to move, perhaps in more ways than one. As a mere man, how can he not have a glimpse of the thought? It goes away quickly, however. There are more enticing things to this moment.

Greedy teeth lunge for his neck, legs forceful with motion against his backside. She thinks she has the higher ground, but he has the lower to use to his advantage.

Twisting his body quickly, he lets his back fall with a thud against the sands below. Normally, such a movement should have caused a momentary lapse of lost breath, but he is used to this brutality against his body. The moment he touches the earth, his legs flail outward, thrashing toward his opponent above. As an added measure of his persistence, his jaws snap blindly. Whether they act as a weapon or distraction, he cares not, for his claws and the force of his legs will surely do the rest.

He succumbs rather easily. Too easily. Before she even had time to react, a blow is thrust upon her ribcage with a sturdy paw! With no choice but to draw back from teeth that snap towards her, she changes her tactic yet again — she is the one who now snaps at his heels. Get up!
For now, she sought to bewilder and exhaust; to chase.

She is stunned, just as he hopes for. But it is not finished here. No — they have more to go.

Lip curling in response to her demands, he pushes himself upright. Shoulders tense, ready. Teeth eager for more, he waits. She first allowed him the initial strike. Now, he intended to give her such the honor.

But she does not. Not yet.
Instead, once she's certain he's on solid ground, she aims to shove him forth — to get him to run. Jumping, again, this time not lingering, but ambushing. A brazen show of teeth is given; nape flared, tail flagged high above her haunches.
Only then would she seek to land another blow; this time, right for his face. If she were to miss, she would allow him to slip from her grasp; if she were to gain purchase, she would offer him a worthy memento in the form of a slim cut to his temple.

Push after push. Shove after shove. She wants him to flee, perhaps so she can experience exhilaration of giving chase. But he doesn't intend on giving her the satisfaction. It goes against everything hardwired into his brain and infused into every muscle in his body.

A statue, now, firm. He will not move from where he stands. Not even when she aims a decent blow, claws scraping against his temple. In fact, it is welcomed. Soldiers are best known for the scars, regardless of which type of battle they are earned in. He yearns for it, intending to relish it for each day until his death.

You will have to do better than that. I will not run. Fight me here, or this spar is at an end. One option. That is the only mercy he would allow.

A proud one, he is. He will not humor her by giving into the chase.
As if a switch had been flipped, Zaahira comes to an abrupt stop. Her breaths grow shallow as she parts her lips, drawing through her mouth in an attempt to catch them. What fun is that? she nearly snorts, giving a quizzical lift of her brow. A sense of annoyance washes over her now — who was he to boss her around in the midst of a spar?
Alright, she readies herself once more. you get one more chance to impress me. Allah Yakhthek.

The desire for a chase forgotten, she readies to face him once more. Seeking a nerve to press, she suggests that he pursue and impress. However, that is not what he has come to do. 

Refraining none, he lunges forth, arms stretching wide. It is the neck he wants in his grasp, and the throat within his expectant jaw. If she wants his all, he will gladly give it without question.

This had gotten much more serious than she had anticipated.
Wide-open jaws with jagged teeth seek her throat. A wretched snarl rips from high in her nostrils, and instinctively, she jabs two forepaws at his open chest in the hopes of stopping him; her claws aiming to rake at the skin beneath the feathersoft fur.
She stares, pinpricked, as the realization dawns upon her. He has size and sheer muscle to his advantage, and she her wit and speed; but there is one crucial thing that sets them apart: he is a man. 
If he wished to cause her true harm, and if her ability to react quickly failed her, she would be powerless. No amount of vigorous training among the great halls of Akashingo nor prayer to the most Holy of Gods would save her, for this was biology, and she is but a girl to his hungry eyes. To him, she is weak. And that infuriates her.
Her chest heaves as her composure is forced into being rekindled. Focus. Her own jaws snap once, twice, thrice; anywhere, hind legs tucked to her stomach in an effort to keep the space between them.

Body writhing... teeth snapping... claws striking. She will do just about anything to be free, but unless he bid it be so, her attempts will be just that and nothing more. 

He is strong, trained by the most experienced soldiers. If he'd wanted to, he may have held the ability to end her life then and there. But this was not the battlefield. A life was not what he wanted, but to show proof he is who he says. A commander, and a fit one at that. 

In a sudden motion, she is released, her body free to collapse upon the ground if she does not first catch herself. Chest stained by blood, both of hers and his, he takes a step back. Watching, waiting. Will she demand more, or has he "impressed her" enough?

This was not a spar. At some point, it had become something worse, although if Zaahira were honest, she didn't quite know when or why.
She had given up on offense and had begun to focus solely on keeping herself above water, and as those yellowed teeth tore and punctured and claws from both man and woman scraped at skin angrily, she saw in his eyes something formidable. Something that very well could have killed her.
This was not a good-natured practice of strategy. This was a flaunt of power. And perhaps part of her mercenary training should be accepting when you are in over your head; when you lose.
When she was finally released, she wanted to ask if he was happy, if he had proven something to himself; if wounding one of the Queen's mazoi bolstered his ego, if he would later return to his chambers and fantasize about this over wine.
But she does not. Because this was not worth it. He was not worth it. He, as she decides while crudely spitting a droplet of crimson from her mouth, was not worthy of her Queen's hand. And if he were to marry her, she would throw a metaphorical shoe at the altar.
She says nothing. With her last remaining shred of dignity, she picks herself up and trudges in the direction of the wellspring.

Few moments had passed before the mazoi turned away with no departing word. 

They had seen this act as cruelty, no doubt. But had the forgotten what they had asked for? Thumose had given it, as he promised he would. Was it not enough, he wondered? 

The thought would soon be gone. If she did not like him, he could not help that. They would go on their (not so) merry ways and pray that an interaction would not so soon again occur.