Hideaway Strath sarcophagus

kynareth was a man grown used to obedience.
ramesses heard the velvet rasp of the grandmaster as his eyes beheld the rolling gait of the giant warrior. a beast built from the cedars of lebanon, pharaoh mused himself; the sort of prizefighter upon which you set assured bets. more than blank malice or empty greed in the careful, cunning gaze. ramesses felt himself bisected, entrails turned over as if kynareth were a priest poking about with his intestines.
divining.
humour. a cold edge of it touched his own mouth. "more determined to serve the purpose that Amun has set for me."
scribe.
a wry expression crossing the pale sands of his face. "who keeps your lore here in the strath? your stories. the count of your edicts?" pharaoh continued, though he meant for his words to be a tease. 
it did not sit well with the prince that the grandmaster could crush him with a practiced ease.
and yet his voice could not help itself.