Luneshale Pass [m] body right teeth white knife sharp gettin'

*dangles bag of treats in the air* pspspspsps

Full bellies and clouded minds were about, and yet in Inji's there was nothing but the beeswarm hum of confidence. In the sea of desertwolves, she preens the crowd at the request of Khusobek, but there lies undeniable curiosity in her gaze.
The outpost is much more bare bones than the palace, nowhere near quite as extravagant just yet; but that makes it easier to navigate. Her head bobs in search of @Rashepses with her own gift ready to be offered; fresh berries from her own store back home, and a traditional song, one memorized.
The gift of entertainment for pharaoh-to-be bundled in a big, red bow.

For what the commonwealth knew of the riverprince, he would be carousing. He would be cloaking himself in Akashingo’s dancing girls and sparring with the infantry, trading an amusing anecdote with the noblemen; indulging in the thickest drink and finest fares and otherwise long gone to heaps of fermented berry-wine.

He was not; he was reclined to admire the splendor a small distance away in a bearing of quiet amusement, roaring goodnature notably absent. Smoldering in the dark.

That is where the little fellahin would find the Prince Rashepses in all but a haze and with golden eyes that slid up her legs into violet eyes.

The little bird approaches with swaying hips and a thrumming heart. No longer the nervous girl she had been upon arrival; no, no, not at all.
Khusobek was to be thanked for that. Perhaps he would be next she sees him.
Sphinx, she purrs quietly; I've been sent to you as a gift. he is watching and she knows it. She brushes close, smooth and yet coy. Her lips turn in an undeniable smile, eyes hooded sweetly. I've brought you berries, and I've prepared a routine for you. Only him; only his eyes.

“A gift from who?” He tilts his head, eyeing her body. He plucked at a berry, pausing to see it gleam in the light of their festivities before moving it to the cusp of her pretty mouth.

“What is your name, desert flower?” He watched eagerly with touch withheld, save for the lightest trail of one shadowy claw up her foreleg, allowing the heat of her belly to inflame senses already ignited by his dance with the Queen.

From? A mazoi.
Desert flower. My name is Jendayi.
She had not instruments, but her voice comes soft and willowy; her body twirls in practiced movements, languid and hot-blooded. From her lips oozes a hymn to the Mistress of the Sky.

Come, oh Golden One, who eats of praise,
Because the food of her desire is dancing,
Who shines on the festival at the time of lighting the lamps,
Who is content with the dancing at night.
Come! The procession is in the place of inebriation,
that hall of traveling through the marshes.
Its performance is set,
its order is in effect,
without anything lacking in it.

Eset, she thought, would be proud of her.
Rumbling low in her throat, she twists and shimmies; a descent further into the grasp of raven-black claws, a turn away in hopes of leaving him breathless.

When the royal children pacify you with what is desired,
The officials consecrate offerings to you.
When the lector exults you in intoning a hymn,
The magician reads the rituals.
When the organizer praises you with his lotus blooms,
The percussionists take up the tambourine.
The girls rejoice for you with garlands,
The women with the wreath-crown.
The Drunken celebrants drum for you during the cool of the night,
With the results that those who awaken bless you.

Her finale is breathless, light laughter as her nose presses to the curve of his cheek. My Prince.

She swayed sensually slow. Her voice filled the air with a haunting hymn. He would not look away, nor would he recline, but still gently as she closed into him.

Breathless; yes. In his chest a pounding desire. Her laughter, light and infectious, mingled with his own deep purr as she pressed her nose to his cheek.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, Jendayi,” he breathed along the cusp of her ear. Up a paw strayed to trace down the fine point of her chin, trickling along her neck. “And a beautiful dance. Do you know another?”

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Earn his favor.
The teeth of the redgirl graze at the fur of darkwoven cheek; a lamb pursued by shepherd, breath quivering. I know many, her voice drips as a soft croon, hips swiveling to brush against his chest as her body whirls yet again, seeking the nightshade embrace as if it were the most forbidden of fruit. do you prefer to be the teacher or the student, my prince?
Her eyes flutter closed, and in the sparks her brain conjures, she sees the cold seafoam of Khusobek.

“I prefer to hear you sing again,” he purred into the perfumed cheek, gathering the fellahin's slim frame up with an arm and leading her out into the desert groves, away from the eyes and ears of the festivities.

Beneath the silver moonlight his teeth found her hip, a growl of possessiveness rose up in his throat. He plied her legs with nuzzles and ran his tongue through the pale hairs there. She tasted sweet and flowering, the same shade of her eyes, the same scent in his nose. He let his senses be consumed by her.

Mature Content Warning

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She ensnares him into her web like a fly caught in spidersilk, and she desperately wished she could enjoy the feeling of arms around waist, the warmth of sweet-bitter breath on the back of her ears.
But she was not here for her own pleasure. She was not here to bask in his warmth, and even if, for a moment, as she untethers and the light sparking behind her eyelids allows her to forget it, he would never be hers.
She was only to serve him; to serve pharaoh.

And was it so cruel, she wonders, to think of someone else in the midst of it?

***

The spillage of endorphine in the place where the light doesn't touch is slow, ebbing. She shivers; her tongue preens at the spiny hairs of his foreleg, ever in servitude. She would not part from him until he sends her away, even as a strange, cold feeling crawls up her spine.

He’d take his time enjoying the feel of her, a shuddering that ran up into his own grip and sundered only once they both burned from the indulgence. He’d send her back to the revelry with a kiss to her cheek and a future intention to keep her close.

She would belong to him. Once he was crowned, all fellahin would belong to him.