Serpent Lake הזר

@Legend >:D

he was tired of running.
how long had he been walking for? izaiah feels the heat burn against his skin, the sand and rock sinking beneath his feet. his eyes burn. his chest aches.
the aged face of his superior rolls back into the forefront of his memory yet again, the snakeskin-wearing fool. he is stupid for sending away his favorite pet; they both surely know this. but he knew izaiah well enough to know the boy took opportunity when it came to him.
and so here he was, ageless in this vast expanse of nothing — nothing, nothing, as it had been for miles. the desert he would come to know as the lowlands was now far behind him, and slowly the landscape began to shift; but still, not quite. the sand was not done with him yet.
he grimaces as a shallow wall of water begins to split the pale horizon in half. ah; he'd missed water! he shouts to himself in relief as he careens straight for the crystalline lip, dunking his face in it as if it would give him salvation — and in a way, it would, if only he knew what lied just a ways to the west.

The river ran. Between it and the sand that hugged its bank, there, the imp treaded the fine line of its wire. As if she could move endlessly, and her legs could carry her mortality just a bit farther each day. Through night, through day, through morning, through twilight, she moved. Akashingo to her back, she carried furs to the great Hebsut beyond the way of the river. A safer passage of travel, it was hardly questionable as to why. With near water, and the abundant marks of land to decide, 'I am here' when each mark was hit.

It was only when the moon was high that she moved in recent times. A true entity now, and some nights, she did not appear at Akashingo or Muat-riya. Sometimes, she was nowhere.
Nowhere to be found at all.

The shadow nymph's silhouette closed in on a lanky figure lurking by the run of water. Soon, prowling. Staring. Quietly moving her feet far beyond the back of the man. Slow. Angry. But what was she? But a mink who could hardly carry the weight of her own waist.

for the first time in days, izaiah sees movement.
not just movement, but a person — a shadow, woven into the midnight that engulfs her, a little blackbird. she is too far away for him to make much out of her features, but he can see the bright pair of eyes, the sharp curves of her slender face.
she is small. fragile, if he had to guess. he could crush her into dust with one palm, and he was not exactly impressive in his own right. this intrigues him in a way he would never voice aloud.
they stare at each other for a while, as long as izaiah allows it to go on for, until he makes an advance — he dips a spindly forelimb into the current, letting it dangle over the edge. he wanted to know if she understood him; equal footing must be established before he is to let himself speak, for he is an alien even to himself.

Legend tunnel visioned, seeing nothing but the towering of his ears, the drag in his tail, and the pinch of his body. A raging boil rummaging through her body, she saw nothing but him. As if she would find his body covered with the sink of her teeth. She watched him, angry. The bite in her tongue enough that she thought her mouth would bleed. If this was how he returned himself, it was there that she decided she wished to see him fall.

He saw her.

The stiffening of her posture and the way they watched one another then spun her reality. A weightless wrist then put in the river, Legend watched his limb drop, and saw not the sun in his eyes to burn her, but something far softer. And she saw then, how his height did not make her want to fall.

An understanding rushed through her, and she dropped to the ground in a still, before then a prompt stand, and an uneasy approach that wished to see him closer. More.

for a while, she is reactionless. izaiah convinces himself for a moment that he must be dreaming; hallucinating a vision in the desolation he had faced thus far. his arm is removed from the river once more, and his tongue smooths over it in an attempt to dry himself off.
and then, she moves. she stills, drops to the ground, and then raises herself up again.
bewildered by this... perplexing behavior, a tiny huh? sounds from izaiah's lips. he squints, turning now so that his back is no longer facing her; preparing himself for an ambush, or perhaps something else. he's still not entirely sure this figure is real.
he clears his throat after the silence stretches far beyond his comfort level, one tall ear rotating to cup the side of his skull. my name is izaiah, he swallows his obvious accent, forcing the most neutral voice he can muster. who... are you?

"Iz-Ai-ah," she didn't know an Izaiah. She did not know his frame. She traveled the riverside frequently, and of each time, she could not piece together his origin. Though, she saw him. Legend drew closer to his face, hackles bristled and tail held high. He asked.
She ignored.

"Don't know I-zai-ah. Who," she motioned her nose across all of him. Because his entirety, she wanted to know. If his name was unimportant, then maybe his title was. Her heart raced itself. "is he?"

unsure whether to be offended or not by the sudden way his question is thrown back at him, izaiah simply stares at the wild woman for a long, drawn-out pause. who was he? who was she?
if he were a better man, he likely would not be putting up with this lunatic, but here he is. he entertains her, expression shifting into a half-smile as he turns himself toward her so she may see him better. he is cast in the bluebeam of the serpent, seated tall and poised; the large ears twitch and flick toward sounds that are not there.
he's certainly somebody, he arches a brow as if to toy with her, and he finds himself amused by the anticipation of how she might respond. i come in search of a place called the red palace. my mentor sent me. do you know where i might be able to find that?

Somebody! Somebody! Somebody, somebody, somebody! The arch in his brow caught her pretty little attention. Somebody. Somebody! She dove to the ground, and her hind legs skidded her backwards. Lifting a forelimb, her nose leaned forward towards his, with a tilting muzzle and big eyes that turned to a saying. Her tail shook itself out.

Akashingo.

"Mentor," came out the word. "Who? What tribe sends him?" And Legend found it more amusing, more fun, to let herself sound only a little more foreign. Even if foreign she was, and it came out of her lips easily. But oh, what a mistake did she make here, to not deny relation to The Red Palace.

she approaches him further, slinking catlike until her muzzle rests right up beside his chin. instinctively, the skin around his nose wrinkles. izaiah longs to pull back and yet he doesn't. he is still, as if she had turned him to stone. a rumble breaks from the dark throat.
she is confusing. in some way, alluring.
had he hands, he would be tightening his collar, perhaps dusting them outside of his pockets. hassan ibn-nazih. a doctor of the minya district, the hazel eyes are hard and inquisitive, searching the small face, looking. she does not deny her knowledge of this place's existence, and so he continues to press onward. he says there is a queen here who i am to serve. can you take me to her?
breath caught stiffly in the man's throat, izaiah turns his head slightly away; not far enough to where the warmth of her lips is distant, but enough to create mystery, space, intrigue. push and pull. perhaps there is a strategy here. you still haven't told me your name.

Legend felt as though she should have heard Minya before, and if she recognized it at all, she showed nothing. Only watchful eyes and close lips, with unwavering eyes, a cold soul. He turned from her. Silky in his turns, and of stone in others. Unmoving, the corners of her eyes were left with nothing but to take in the peppering along his back; the dark fades along his spine, as if moonlight had only touched his night through the filter of clouds.

A prolonged silence went on long enough for her to take notice of a cool breeze. "The Pharaoh." More than a Queen. "She is not far." Enough of a walk that she hoped the man would crumble and fall. The spry river may have prevented that. "I will take him to her. To say that I-zaiah of Minya comes with service for Her Divineness." It was one of the few ways that he would have been granted access to the Pharaoh.

"Is that what he wants?"

was this how they all spoke and acted out here? perhaps izaiah should familiarize himself with it, this strange, thick sense of discomfort. he does not react further to her.
hassan was fucking batshit for throwing him to the wolves like this.
there's a sharp intake of air and a soft blink before he meets her eyes again. he is patient. perhaps too much so. pharaoh, yes, his tongue slips from between his lips in order to wet them. you heard me correctly. i'd like to meet her.
one paw slinks up into the air and snakes beneath her jaw, seeking to cup her face in his grasp. he is entertained. his lips curl into a devilish shit-eating grin. would you like that?

Izaiah of Minya touched her. Her jaw was cupped in his fingers, and it did not move. Instead, Izaiah of Minya would only see how she bore their shared sight. A smile was painted upon her inky mouth, and it stayed there. One would think that she was dead if it were not for the skylight moving across her pupils. By now, Izaiah of Minya had seen this ones mouth move enough to know that she breathed.

"Yes."
Tavina would appreciate it, perhaps. To not be Sesh alone. With the attacks, maybe the royals would see luxury in someone to look over mauled bodies. Whatever the reason, Legend was not in position to care, or to concern herself with higher things. That was not her place. Her duty now was this man, as it was asked of her. "If he is of desire to the Pharaoh, then I will want," came the willows of her voice again.

only one way to find out, yeah?
a laugh purls from deep in izaiah's chest, almost taunting with its graceful, dark notes. it's as if she is transfixed by him. why him, he did not understand — if one were to ask him, he would likely call himself a boring, disheveled boy who hardly even qualifies as a man.
izaiah, the spindly, shell-shocked son. izaiah, the last remaining child who had taken part in the eucharist. izaiah, the boy with clipped wings. izaiah who came to pharaoh only with bags beneath his eyes and a tender hope that she will deem him worthy.
but she, this nameless girl, does not know this. that story does not matter to her. this both excites and terrifies him.
if she will not name herself, he will have to think of one for her. 'eynyym m'evshnvt, he whispers it, the pseudonym for the mystery girl, and where his palm once was at her jaw is now a cold and empty space. are you gonna keep messing with me? i'm more than happy to stand here and waste your time.