Lion Head Mesa i push myself a little closer to the edge

as i doubt the teekon wilds has any ostrich feathers laying about, i used creative freedom for the feather of ma'at.

ingram wakes from his slumber; startled and disoriented. seaglass gaze is foggy with lingering vestiges of sleep threatening to pull him back under. the vision still hangs, vivid in his mind's eye. a chamber, carved from obsidian, threaded with lapis lazuli and gold.

the scales.

a still beating heart and the feather.

he stretches as he stands, touching his nose to his threadbones, though leaves them in his little nook for them, knowing what he must seek.

he hunts small game to fill his belly and sets off, in search of a bird or nest that might fill this requirement.

it takes some time before the patronsaint feels rather lucky despite the morning hours spent searching as he comes across an ivory plume. likely shed from a snowy white owl or some other sort of ivory colored bird. it did not matter what.

greedily, he snatches it and begins his trek back to where he's stashed his threadbones, eager to add this new tool to his collection to serve the deathlord osiris.

Still, she had not met her husband, Charles. Diantha began to wonder if he existed at all. Perhaps it was a ruse to lure her in. Give her a fancy title and let her be used by the pharaoh only so that he could go and die on her. She did not like that very much, but perhaps it wasn't so bad.

Diantha shed the catacombs today, and instead spotted a new figure up ahead. Somebody she did not know, nor had she seen before. Could this be him?

Charles? she greeted tentatively, voice sweet.

charles?

white owl feather clutched in his grasp, ingram's purposeful steps cease to reluctantly turn his body towards the sound of the inquiry.

a pretty image greets him: a woman of earthen browns and soft cream and ivory.

it reminds ingram that he has severed ties to his nightwife and was husband no longer.

father? yes.

husband? no.

feather of ma'at is laid at his paws, teeth replaced by a large paw upon it to keep it from floating off.

i'm sorry to say no, patronsaint rumbles. i am ingram. acolyte of the deathlord osiris.

rude diantha is rude. :P

This was not him. Her interest waned, and her bright expression turned dull. She did not bother to learn his name, nor stick around to learn more about him. If he was not Charles, then she had no use for him.

Hmph, was all she said, turning away from him and leaving him to his feather.