Ocean's Breath Plateau the seeds are in your hands

the branches break your bones.

blood by abandoned pools

following directly after this thread
preferrably those in akashingo!

morning arrives. Ra rises to greet his subjects, but today racharra is not one of them. heathen.

instead, she is hidden in the farthest corner of the tent. the girl lays in bed, and shows no care to get out. she has done all of her duties. what else is there for akashingo's loyalest dog? a sniffle and a sigh leaves racharra as she closes her eyes. her head still reeling from where she's found herself.

forced to think, her mind now wanders beyond her body. where is her mothe-...zharille headed for now? to the lake. it's probably to that lake. the answer, this time, comes easy. racharra, for the second time in her life, shows her teeth and vents a slight growl.
she can keep that damned lake now. she was forced to leave the lake because khaba cared more for it than his children, and now she has been abandoned for it. maybe not for the lake — perhaps its more for a daughter zharille can say she is proud of. a daughter who can truly meet zharille's eyes.

racharra is drowning.

she had never been so far from home.
this did not compare to Mereo; the very thought of the barracks in the mountains, which by now was long gone, brought to mind the vanished Makono and with the memory came the hurt in her chest. Nazli tried to push aside those memories in favor of the ocean's splendor, or the wide blue sky that seemed to reach beyond the very horizon, or the various people of the plateau and all that they had to offer.
when she was with Senmut, it was better.
he was away now, speaking with someone about something, trading stories or fascinations, maybe singing to these strangers; doing priestly thing when it was she who should be praising Ra and teaching people of their culture.
she finds her way to one of the tents for a reprieve from strange eyes, and ducks inside without thinking. for a few moments, as her eyes adjust from the springlight to dimmed interior, Nazli can breathe and freely pine for things she cannot have.
as her eyes open again, she sees the bundle of dark fur in the corner and realizes she is not, in fact, alone.
oh, a girlish blush rises to her cheeks.
i am sorry, i—did not mean to intrude, ah,
she bows her head, forgetting her role for a moment and falling back on the well-ingrained habits of a fellahin rather than the hemet that she has become.

stuck not by the lake but instead the ocean, and somehow she is less scared of it than having to camp once again by greatwater. for now, the girl finishes with a prayer: may Ra drain that damn lake of its water with his light, and turn its husk into another claim of the desert. may she return to just another plot if red sand, and the lake forever hers. racharra of red sand curses her brood.

nazli's presence rips her back to reality. her voice comes out like sweet honey, as she apologizes for something silly — the dark wolf didn't exactly hear what she had said. instead she shakes her head as a response. words have yet to return to her, but her body forgives her enough to sit up. it towers over the other woman, but there's no longer any pride or enjoyment in this. her body hadn't grown enough, and now she is ashamed. 
stretching gets a crack, but her body is still not yet satisfied. it'll have to do. finally, the nebet vessel racharra is trapped in makes her face the hemet. the skin, on its own, offers the other a gentle smile. it's good to see you again. it speaks.

during the travel nazli had kept to her duties, but often was too tired to mingle with the party of people or do much in the day to day, once they reached moontide.

this was one rare instance that she felt a little bit more herself. the seaside had been a nice change—although the sea itself was vast and intimidating.

the hemet remembered this girl; she had not seen her in some time before the trip, given that one was of akashingo and the other muat-riya. still, racharra was hard to forget.

yes, and you've grown. before the girl had been a child, but now nazli saw a woman of towering height. not quite as overbearing as the feral woman she was born from, thankfully—and besides that, nazli was used to it.

does the sun not agree with you? nazli had noticed how bright it was here, which was fine for her work but might make others uncomfortable, such as the dark beauty who now hid herself away. nazli did not want to pry.

words that have been said time and time again the older she gets and the more she sees. have i..? i don't think i've grown enough. dressed in laughter, sorrow lies within the girl's tongue.

her body sways, as if the tower is about to topple, but it remains upright. the girl now stands and turns to nazli. it's just i don't agree with the sun today. just today, she swears.

cramped as they are, racharra now approaches the hemet with newfound curiosity. or maybe it's a distraction. anything to get herself out of this mud she trudges through. she keeps her distance from the coywolf, if only out of habit.
what'll you be doing? 

if it is prayer, then she hopes to join. she'll speak to her gods, like she always has. she weaves a fantasy now: they'll listen to her and perhaps, if she's truly their beloved, they'll give as she says. and summer will be just a little more hot. a drought for just the lake. may bowls of red sand suffocate the last of the water, and let nothing remain but memory. yes, she'll pray for that, for racharra is a pious girl who until today has only ever prayed to be loved.

nazli smiled at her comment, choosing not to press. as for what she was doing, she gave a little sigh and then a shrug. truthfully, i am not sure.

it was not appropriate to speak of her problems with a nebet of all people; but nazli felt, given how racharra appeared eager for distraction and maybe some kind of sympathy (although she did not know why exactly), perhaps vulnerability was the right call here.

i miss akashingo. while i love my work in muat-riya and have worked hard on the temple, akashingo will always have my heart. and it was where her heart would stay, she thought, picturing the erpa-ha.

she blushes, looking at the floor of the tent. i suppose you mean right now though. sorry, my mind is... she made a silly motion with a raised paw and then laughed softly.

her prayers would have to wait. racharra settles down on her haunches.

nodding along, racharra watches as nazli, typically so demure, unveils her troubles and presents them. offers them, and racharra ponders. she refuses to offer her own woes, but instead exchanges sympathy for the hemet.
don't apologize. she starts. there is still a place for you in akashingo. there always will be. muat-riya. a daughter separated from her mother. her mind turns to eset, what must she be doing now? racharra wishes she had accompanied nazli, but perhaps she was busy tending to the royals. maybe she wouldn't have made the mistake of venturing off on her own. perhaps that would've eased the hemet's worries.

what binds you to muat-riya? besides a sense of duty?

what is more important than duty? she answers, unintentionally evasive.

i have always been a good worker; did you know i was born a fellahin? it was taught to me to be this way—and for a long time, i adored it. she did not speak much about this to others; by now only tavina and senmut knew of her history.

i thought there was nothing else. to be given responsibilities and to carry them out for the pleasure of your betters— the word pleasure is clipped, quick. when she speaks of those above her she gives a small nod to racharra. i lived for it.

but, i grew, and i changed. it is the way of things. work is still important to me but now i do it for myself—and for the gods, of course. muat-riya was a new start for me. still part of the greatness of our pharaoh, but different.

she laughs again!
i suppose that is a long way to go, to say that... my choice ties me there. after living a long time without such a power, it feels good to have that.

a flurry of a rant hits racharra in the face, and she is left stunned in the aftermath. a pleasant surprise, she'd never heard the woman speak so much. back straightened, nobility adorns her body for just this moment.

nazli talks of duty, how she was born for it, embraced it. racharra narrows her eyes. she wasn't born for duty — its only now that she's truly chosen it. and it leaves a sour taste on the tongue.
..y-yes but. the girl deliberates. are you happy? or are you still getting used to muat-riya? and no longer being fellahin.

suppose she was trying to teach something, but perhaps it was not working. maybe she was tired of the many quiet days and needed to vent. the mantle of hemet had become liberating in some ways, lonely in others.

i... was happy. and with this admittance she went quiet. thoughtful. what else could she say? already having shared so much more than what was appropriate—!

it feels good to build something new. to be someone else for a while. and she would never go backwards, that was an impossibility. nazli settles near the entry of the tent, poised there like a little sphinx. do you ever... wish for more? or something different?

what she truly wanted she could not have, and it was something she would mourn forever.

marigold eyes follow nazli as she shifts to the entrance. racharra couldn't see what, if any, festivities were being held  the sun just barely crept in through the entry of the tent. she, however, kept her distance from the entrance. she is uninterested in it all today, all except for some company.

i think i could say the same. the young girl relents. i wish a lot of things went differently. maybe not more. what more is there anyways, if love isn't guaranteed.

i just don't know what went wrong, really. i used to be happy, but then, as i grew.. her voice is swept like a leaf by the wind, barely audible as it leaves her lips.

what racharra describes reminds nazli of her own feelings; she wonders how common it is. perhaps when one gets older it isn't just their body and mind maturing, but happiness as a resource gets further limited. it was certainly true for nazli's own experience.

i think, if you are unhappy with where you are or what you are doing, there is always an option to change. although it sounded as if racharra was cognizant of this, and she was wallowing in the darkness of a past that nazli did not know about.

she thinks about what khusobek once asked of her.

what is it you want? you were happy before, and then something changed. now you are not, and that is okay—it does not feel good but that can change. so, what is stopping you from being happy now?

a bold question! it was not the kind of thing a fellahin should ask, but nazli was not this any longer. as hemet she could probe a little deeper. still, she was careful.

change. but change to what? frustration rumbles in her throat. just how does it get better than akashingo?

agitation courses through her veins and suddenly, instead of sitting, the girl finds that her body has started pacing without her knowledge. hey.

that familiar swelling returns to her crown, so she settles herself back down with a royal plop.
what i want is long gone, nazli. or maybe it never existed. i don't know.

the tall woman is even taller as she rises, pacing as she thinks aloud. it is such an abrupt change that nazli is momentarily concerned and tenses, but she tells herself there is no worry here; this is no angry mazoi, this is a girl who is experiencing the confusion of life and maturation, and probably not for the first time.

she lets a silence brew between them so racharra can pace and think and maybe find some calm, if possible—but she does answer soon enough.

is it something—i can help with? or, maybe we should ask the gods. she does not know how to help outright, and is growing a little bit worried for the nebet. maybe it is her place to pry? but it does not feel right. nazli must try, regardless of whatever assumed propriety she thinks she upholds.

we do not need to stand in the light to speak with them. come, sit with me?

the dark beauty is a turmoiled girl. and its really only now that she realizes it as the hemet tenses at her slip.

but she is still just that — a girl on the brink of adulthood, but thats just it. the brink. a flower bud trying to bloom after a life of being trampled. she has only seen one year of life, less since she couldn't understand most of it. 

prayer then is offered for her woes. racharra turns to nazli and a pout falls upon her face as she nods. slowly, each step the girl takes closes the distance between her and nazli.
you already are of help. assures the girl, when the crack of light blooms along her features, the pout turns into a smile. it's little, but still. thank you. show me, then.

senmut used to sing praises to the sun in the morning; she remembered being there with him in attendance, inspired by his voice as much as she was the rising sun, and feeling the presence of Ra. but it was not Ra who she called to as a hemet—her own affiliation was with the Goddess of the Sky, she who watches with the many eyes.

when praising Ra we welcome the dawn with song—i have no doubt you have heard this in the early mornings. in muat-riya our temple is to the Sky Goddess, Nwt. it is She who we will pray to now—and, usually it is with dance, but...

nazli had never shown anyone her practice up-close before. it was something typically kept private out of happenstance as they prayers happened in the dark of night, when nazli could be alone with the stars. she withheld the awkwardness she felt as she drew shapes in the dirt before racharra.

a bow-shaped line, like a bowl, with the mouth facing herself and the bottom facing the girl.

Nuit—Mistress of the Sky,
your Eye watches over us always.
like the stars nursing at your belly,
we are your children.

Great goddess, hear us.

there is a moment that nazli goes quiet; she doesn't know what else to say because to worship Nwt is to be silent, and to be the dancer to accompany the songs of Ra; but there is not enough space here in the tent, and beyond that it did not feel appropriate.

the hemet looks around among the items within the tent, and feels constriction in her throat when she remembers she is not in her temple with her sycamore bark at the ready, or the lapis to ornament this figurative bowl. she smiles softly and draws Racharra's palm to the center of the bowl instead, and then seeks a dark blue flower from among the trade goods nearby. this, she drapes across the girl's wrist.

you.. may speak your prayer if you wish, nazli offered softly, as if to speak to loudly would break whatever heka had been cast. close your eyes, She is here with us.

nwt, the one who watches with many eyes. did she see racharra and her mother, then? how will she judge the lost girl, then. soon she'll see for herself.

the "nebet" has prayed many times before, though she can't ever recall seeing a summoning occur. then, a dance unfolds before racharra's eyes and she is left entranced as dirt parts for nazli's drawing. a mark on heathen's land, but for now this tent is as holy as muat-riya itself. it is when her paw is touched and a flower blue is placed along her wrist where racharra returns to her senses. she notes how closely the color of each delicate petal resembles the hemet's coat.

silence fills the tent-turned-temple. to breathe felt it would be too loud, and yet nazli allows her to speak.
pressure builds, and it releases as racharra gives a gentle sigh before her eyes close. her hand, placed so firmly within the shape of the bowl she could feel as her pads carve the dirt beneath it into their shape. she concentrates on it, and pretends as though it is only the goddess and her. a pause lengthens the silence as the pious girl ponders deeply on her words before facing the goddess with her prayer.

O Nuit, Lady of Sky. Please hear my prayer as I climb the steps to your sacred cosmos..

her voice a whisper, racharra pauses for a sharp breath as emotion swells within her. it is as if the goddess herself sits in front of her now, watching each deliberation the girl makes. she's sure, then, that the goddess knows what she desires. anger, hatred, and all else that makes her filthy is pushed aside. she walks through the caverns of her mind, seeing the sandy red halls of the palace, stumbling into her chambers and finding the corner where the lost girl buries her wants like treasure. for now, she thinks she's found it.

I bring only three requests for thee. One, please give me strength so that i may lift my mortal burdens for i can not carry so much. Two, please allow me to one day bring glory to Akashingo, and allow me to repay the debt I owe as daughter of heathen. Lastly, please forgive me, and any sin I may have committed, so that I may sleep peacefully again under your skies.

sorry if the prayer isnt exactly very accurate i tried

 can't live without the trust from those you love

its perfect! :>

nazli did not know what troubled racharra. at her age and in her station she did not suspect much could trouble someone like her; she was young, well-off, and beautiful. but she knew also that the middling time between girl- and womanhood was one of pressure and confusion, and she sympathized.

she did not speak. it was racharra's voice that filled their little make-shift holy circle.

there was quiet after the words flowed from her and nazli somberly reached for the girl's forehead; she planted a very faint kiss between her eyes, where a third-eye might be, and then tried to press foreheads with her. as nazli withdrew from this ritualized action she sank back to her sphinx-like pose and murmured:

O Mother Nwt—
she who holds a thousand souls
share with us your Cunning,
your Wisdom, your Sight;
we, your earthly children.

and as she finished this ending prayer, nazli took the flower which draped across the nebet's wrist and tucked it neatly in to a circlet, with the stem carefully tied close to the bud, and placed this among her dark furs as a talisman.

smiling softly to her, nazli clears the bowl sigil from the earth.

racharra kept her eyes shut, for if she were to open them, all the waterworks she'd held back would come flowing. she follows along all the same, pressing her forehead against nazli and listening to the closing prayer.
it's only when the flower is taken from her wrist that she opens her eyes once more. 

she watches as the bowl is wiped clean, and as nazli gives one last swipe at the drawing it's as if the world unfroze. the activity outside made itself heard to racharra once again, and all that remains of the prayer is the circlet of the flower — the one that now carries the girl's prayers. she imagines, then, that if its seeds were to spread then perhaps her wishes could bloom across the land and make them reality.

thank you. she whispers, eyes returning to nazli.

nazli smiles to her, looking to the floor of the tent where the dirt has become dirt again and not the vessel they had made.

if you ever want to talk again, i will always make time to listen. so will She.
the hemet motions to the circlet, but says no more on the subject.

standing, she makes a courteous bow and goes to stand in the slanting light of the tent mouth, dismissing herself so that racharra may rest. her small figure cuts a silver-hewn silhouette as she steps out among Ra's light.

as nazli motions to the circlet, racharra holds it close as she mirrors the hemet's sphinx position. she nods, staring at it as if the goddess truly is imbued into the flower now. the bow the priestess gives is returned with her own tilt of the head and racharra silently watches as nazli leaves the safety of the tent.

alone again, racharra tucks the flower close to her breast, and lays her head between her paws. for now, she'll rest, but for now a glimmer of the girl's determination has been returned to her from the clutches of the ogre.