Lion Head Mesa haruspicy

1/5 for general spiritualist trade

Akhtar emerged from the springs with a tired sigh, water dripping from his pelt. At least he was cleaned of dust, of blood from his sacrifices.

His toenails clicked against the stone as he left from the catacombs, climbing the Mesa to his altar. There, he summoned one of the Fellahin to fetch him one of the sacrifices. He would do one more on this day, and then he would retire.

It took nothing for the entrails to spill across his altar, and he set to reading them with a grim look on his long face, poised above the intestines and occasionally prodding at them.

The smell of death hit her like a ton of bricks—one step, her nose was clear, and the next, she was near-overcome by the fumes. Still, she moved closer, intrigued, eyes squinted against the omnipresent headache.

A lanky man, with features all stretched out. . .like the polar opposite of Gucci. She chuffed to get his attention and peered at the grisly contents.

What are you doing? Maegi asked, head tilted slightly. It reminded her much of her sacrifices to Jaes, and she wondered if her god would return if she sat and prayed with this man.

Just maybe. . .

A woman’s voice.

His head turned to face it, greeting the face with a little dip of his head, before he turned back to his work.

When I was a young boy, I learned this art from a traveling priest. He called it “haruspicy”, the art of reading omens from entrails. He prodded an intestine.

Pharoah wants answers. This is just one way of seeking them.

It was incredibly intriguing, and indeed somewhat akin to her past offerings. But those had been just that; this was deeper, a grasping at what answers lay within the flesh and blood. She squinted at the guts, wondering if she could find them herself.

What do you see? Maegi asked him instead, sitting respectfully to his side. Distractions helped her pounding head, and this was a good one.