The woman draped in onyx does not hesitate to close the distance between them. Her steps are deliberate and each one placed with the grace and the poise of their people. His dark eyes settle on the sharp chisel of her cheekbones and the silvery light reflected in her deep dark eyes. I know no Khonsu. The words are spoke softly and with an accent from a land that is far beyond the reaches of the sea. His ears stand erect within his onyx mane as she speaks of, Uzay the taker of souls, in hushed tones.
"You are wise to not want such attention," he muses aloud, in the same moment his dark eyes find hers as she peers up at him. Her thick eyelashes and dark pools draw him deeper into her world. A world where a god rules with wrath and a sullen temper.
Did you fight a wildcat in the womb, savaşçı, and now wear its blood on your coat?
His mother had never spoke of such things nor the valor that comes with the speckling of his hide nor the stripes of his coat. No honor nor reverence has been bestowed on him for such things. But now the onyx woman speaks such things over him and blesses him with her tongue. He raises his chiseled head higher on his arched neck, a flicker of pride in his dark eyes.
"They are well-deserved," he admits with a nod of his chiseled crown. He has earned such marks and they came with his own bloodshed. He has defended those of the desert from the ignorance of an outsider; still to this day he continues to keep her from taking the sands from him.
"I protect the searing desert sands with the shedding of my own blood. It is an honor that has been bestowed on me by Bast."
