Two Eyes Cenote what you expect from me when you're disrespectin' me?

He had followed that strong flower-scent until the redsand became stone, and the scrub grass showed no sign of flowerbuds to offer such a thing; he knew he was on the right trail when he found a discarded shaft of green tipped with yellow, and lingered over it to sniff and study. Afterwards with a snort, Drusk looked for his next path.

There were animal trails between some of the stones; he could make out the scratch-marks of claws having dragged their way through, and when he went to wedge himself between these stones he found himself struggling, and frustrated, but correct as well. There were many scents: birds, rodents, coyote; even some that he might call wolf.

He is reminded of the mountain-people.

The boy stalks to another section of stonework and lifts his leg to relieve himself, unaware that he does so upon a stele marked for Muat-Riya—and when the air is ripe with the scent of himself, he feels contented, and prowls further.

“You will come no further.”

Her voice is stern and amber eyes sharp; an approximation of the soldiers she’s seen wear to good advantage. But the figure veiled in shadow remains inscrutable, only his smell pervades her nose in the desecration of their hallowed temple.

She stands unyielding, as small as she is. It is her duty to protect the people here, and he would know this is claimed territory by the marks of wolf-kind. She could only pray he would not take notice of the quiver in her legs nor the scent of masked fear.

It isn't the voice that stops him, although he is attentive to the sound of it, but the glare held by a set of eyes. She is dark-coated lime him but with the lean conformation of a pest, and Drusk isn't sure if he should challenge that look or chase that creature, as both instincts arise at the same time and with the same intensity.

He certainly isn't cowed by her tone.

With a huff the boy kicks back one then another heel, scoring his mark on the path. The fur of his nape has begun to briskle (but it might have been the wind) and he surveys further, playing deaf.

What is she going to do? If she comes close he might get a taste of her blood and would know for certain if she was associated with the coyote from earlier. Perhaps the wretched things made camp here, where they could hide until dusk.

A shard of light darts across one cheek and Eset can see the palest eyes staring well above her. Youth clings to his face- he is not a year old and still he appears dangerous. Her heart pounds as the pressure of his nails scour the sand, acutely aware of the damage those paws could inflict if he chose.

“Do not move,” she warns again, “or I will call the guards. You have entered the palace of Muat-riya and defiled our temple.”

“Who are you?” She asks, clinging to the composure that befits her rank, the one that should have protected her here. But internally she trembles. Her ears listen for any shift in weight that will reveal his motives as her own feet brace against the earth.

The trip back from Akashingo had been tiring. They'd returned not awfully long ago, and surely Eset had been busy. She crept around the desert slowly to Muat-Riya, this time with gifts. They were locked within her jaw, placed down by Eset's bedside only when she did not find her friend there.

By ear alone, the buzzing of her voice reeled in the hellspawn. Her nose, burning further and further, and it frustrated her that she could not place the scent. Sound. It had always been a friend. 

"Or I will call the guards. You have entered the palace of Muat-riya and defiled our temple."

Launched from corners of the palace, Eset is not alone. Legend found her place by her side, with spiked hackles and a size that matched to the Hebsut's. Eset's legs shook. It was this fear from her friend that somehow brought the imp's to weaken as well, but with teeth that would strike at a single word.

A scent unfamiliar wafted through the palace corridors, accompanied by the commanding voice of the Hebsut, reverberating ominously. Trouble loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon.

In moments of unrest, Machiavelli saw opportunity whereas others saw chaos. A branch of thorns had been resting in his room, submerged in water- poisonously pink flower petals had been crushed and floated along the surface. He pulled the branch from the tortoise-shell bowl, ensuring not to touch any part tainted by the toxic mixture.

Arriving at the women's sides with a demeanor bristling with anticipation, Machiavelli stood poised for command, his body coiled like a spring ready to unleash its deadly potential, excitement dancing between glittering opal eyes.

If the intruder sought to provoke a confrontation, they would soon discover that there were myriad ways to meet their demise beyond mere claws and teeth, and Machiavelli had been just dying to test this out.

edited! sorry i didn't see the other posts, the site broke.

The creature kept speaking, trying to enforce something? He wasn't sure. It was chatter; the tone was full of warning and the boy raises his eyebrows to it, and pauses.

Jith vitiherath. He mused to himself, and chuffed in a way that could've been laughter; derisive, unafraid.

But he doesn't go closer. Studying her, this jackal woman.

Another slips up close behind, one which could've been a child; they might have been a coyote for all Drusk could tell. Hm, jano zolle.

A third became apparent soon after—this one even more unsettling in appearance: lanky, pale-faced, masculine. This one earned a stare-down by virtue of it being a man, or what smelled as one, and Drusk snorts after to rid himself of the taste.

Faced with three now, Drusk was especially watchful. He began to pull away, letting his jaws hang open and his teeth click; not as a direct display or a threat to them, but a warning in case they chose to come after him. He was glad to have discovered this haven of vermin; if his hunger got to be intense enough, he'd know where to go.

The presence of the trio was enough to fully deter him; although he stared them down and would not turn his back until he had gone quite a distance—heading back to the limits of Luneshale Pass where he knew he could make camp, and stake out the area for when they ventured beyond their shelter.

— double post, ignore!

Even in a rasp of foreign speech she can perceive his coldness. His eyes remain strangely void. She should be glad to see his retreat, but she is merely disgusted.

When he is gone she glances up, looking into the sure-burning diligence of Legend and Machiavelli.

“Thank you both for coming so quickly,” she frees a breath, bowing gratefully, and only then does her upper lip quiver. Eset does not want to imagine what could have happened in their palace if they had not defended it. The corridor stands silent and empty but the air is heavy with the intruder’s odor. She studies the stone crevice now hatched in claw-marks.

“Legend, would you please scout the perimeter and make sure he is truly gone?” Eset asks of her friend. "Please also notify Akashingo of the break-in, but only Senmut." The erpa-ha would then decide if he needed to tell Toula of the incident. She did not want to needlessly cast clouds of worry over the early days of her young pharaoh's ascendancy.

It was to the fellahin she turned then, “Machiavelli, there may be silt around the main room we can use to patch this rift.”

In a store the hebsut finds a dried palm fiber and douses it in the clean waters of the reservoir. She returns to the soiled stele and begins to scrub.

But in patches of darkness, behind corners, she imagines assassins hiding.

"Yes."

Soon, she was gone. Let loose from Eset's side and following the fleeing boy. As he backed himelf up, she was ahead of him. The fellowship of the Hebsut's shiver still climbing up the mazoi's own legs, but there was a hardness to her stare. Strange tongue. All the way back to the border, and from there she trailed the rest of the perimeters. Boy with a strange tongue. A sound that she would remember.