Lion Head Mesa Wishing You the Best in the Worst Way

For @Rashepses! Set for the day of Muat's arrival

The dog limped into the mesa, tapping the remnants of his expedition from his dove paws. A rabbit-skin bag sat clutched between his teeth even as early-morning frost clung to the tips of his soft fur, and his breath spiraled in tendrils before him.

Rashepses could not remember the name of this one and so he snapped his tail for attendance.

“Bring me a drink,” the riverking stared haughtily, “a strong one.” The gold-limned eyes narrowed to half-close as he reclined along the edge of a low stone feasting couch. Weeks apart, and his wife had absconded to her separate apartments. Where was Nasima?

Semer-wati bristled and stretched out the tight muscles in his forearms.

This was the first Machiavelli had seen the River-Prince since the night of the feast prepared long ago, and yet somehow he seemed more distasteful now than he had back then—if that were even possible. The golden eyes were not met, the dog only slinking away in silence to lay down what was left of his belongings and complete the task set before him.

My Lord, the words announced the half-breed's sweetly-singsong return. The strongest the store-room has to offer. Berries fermented to perfection and strong in all of the most desirable ways, and perhaps also in ways that were less so.

A low bow offered to the dark-hearted man. Is there any other way I might service you, Highness?

My Lord. Rashepses smoldered. Was this disrespect the lot of a soveriegn titled forever beneath his wife?

“Your God,” the riverking sneered and lifted his sleek head high over neck with the swell of a cobra’s mane. He skewered a berry—two—three, actually, and downed them without so much as a swallow.

“My shoulders need work,” he commanded next, looking absently at the coiffed man as he shifted onto his side, allowing access to the tightened profusion of muscle.

Oh, dear heavens above, Machiavelli’s voice cracked, horror painting his features as he all but collapsed against the cold floor. His trembling frame pressed flush to the stone, shoulders drawn tight, shrinking beneath Semer-Wati’s piercing gaze. I—I beg your forgiveness, a thousand times over.

Shattered-glass eyes flicked upward, hesitant, barely daring to meet the dark figure’s stare. As though the very act of looking upon him might be yet another transgression. I have been away, stolen for many months, he whispered, voice faltering. When I last walked these sacred halls, it was Pharaoh Toula, most radiant, who bore Amun-Ra’s divine light. I did not know—could not know—that she had left us, that you, holy one, in your infinite grace, had ascended in her stead.

The words poured from him faster now, spilling over themselves in a desperate bid for absolution. Please, exalted one, forgive my ignorance, the blasphemy of my unworthy tongue. I shall make it up to you immediately.

When finally summoned to action, Machiavelli slunk forward, a picture of absolute contrition, until he reached Rashepses’s side. It was here, however, that his confidence faltered, a crack forming in the practiced veneer. He had been rarely called for service of this sort—usually finding himself receiving such ministrations instead of offering them.

Dove paws hovered, then pressed firmly against the tight muscles of Rashepses’s shoulders, working the knots in patterns he had once found most pleasurable.

The sputterings of a mad man! Rashepses would acknowledge this only as a loss of mind rather than an effort to de-throne him.  Yet, he should feel the lash for such foolishness, the tongue should run in another way.

“You are an insolent servant. Pharaoh is very much alive,” he snapped, rolling his shoulders beneath the touch.

It was Muat-riya that had bred this boorish man, the sesh and their ilk. Where had such chaos budded? He would speak of increased punishments for mortal impudence.

“How long have you lived in the cenote,  fellahin?”

Please forgive me again then, I hail from a land far from here, perhaps that is where my mistaken idea that only the Pharoah possessed godhood arose, Machiavelli replied humbly, shattered-glass eyes glinting in the low-light as he pressed down into the man's shoulder.

I beg again that you might find it in your heart to forgive my stupidity, Divine One. I was always told I was lucky to be as beautiful as I am, for my brain would get me nowhere. A tinkling laugh poured from the pearl-spill throat.

The mutt proved to be an example of why rabble could not govern itself. The masses had strong need for their masters.

The half-breed drummed on in a vacillating fashion. The king’s question went unanswered. Rashepses did so for him.

“Long enough to understand the supremacy of the crown. Who trained you when you arrived to Muat-riya?” Semer-wati asked at once.

My training was never completed I'm afraid, stolen away and all that, Machiavelli responded, scintillating eyes flicking to the bowl of berry-wine.

A pause. His paws resumed their work, pressing into the dense knots of muscle at Rashepses’s shoulders, careful not to linger too long or press too deep—just enough to coax tension without fully satisfying it. He leaned closer, words dropping to a softer, more venerable register.

If it is not too much of me to request, Semer-Wati, you might grant me a lesson? There is no better way for one to learn how to best satisfy than from the mouth of the very one they serve, no?

He pressed into the tight knots at the base of the dark man's neck, tilting his head thoughtfully. The rhythm of his movements shifted, paws now moving in long, sweeping strokes.

I do not think a silly fellahin like me could ask for a better teacher. After all, your Majesty’s wisdom shines even in these dark times. It is truly an inspiration how gracefully you have been able to maintain balance in such...chaos.

Semer-wati ceased the ministrations, rolling up from his stone couch to stand at full cocksure height above the cur. This was yet another failure of the hebsut to reign in Muat-riya. This was yet another reason why the Gods shake the foundations of Akashingo with the voices of anger.
“You have the folly to ask your king to teach a servant how to serve,” the glimmering arrogant eyes gave one more sweep, then Semer-wati wafted the insolent face away like he would a pesterous insect.

"Leave."

Thank you for this thread, it was so much fun <3

Machiavelli dipped low, his brow nearly brushing the icy floor as he lingered in a bow. My apologies, Highness, I just assumed the subject might be one you were familiar with, the dog replied softly, his body straightening with practiced elegance, every movement as poised and regal as ever the Prophet had been as he began his retreat toward the exit.

I assure you, it rises only from the unschooled mind of a common mutt. I mean nothing by it. Truly. He paused as he reached the River-Prince's side, eyes fixed upon the exit although his head tilted ever so slightly. After all, those who dare to challenge the will of a king—even the most beloved, the most loyal—rarely fare well, do they?

The faintest tut escaped his lips, a soft, disapproving click of his tongue as he shook his head, his figure dissolved into the shadows beyond the chamber's exit.

Semer-wati did not linger.

He swept from the chamber, dismissing his pillared guards and moved for the polished path into the hall of twin plinth thrones. The deep silken pelts like long velvet robes sifted from his shoulders, festooning with starlight when the riverking took his throne. Needle-tip paws thronged the redstone. King set a word into the air:

“Ramesses.”

And the mesa did moan—