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           “——You’re a very handsome creature.

                A superb Galatea carved from the mountains themselves, dressed in the warm sand, and her sword just as earthly and modest, Muu could do little to hide his admiration. Her scar, dug into her flesh, only made her far more fearsome; nothing he hadn’t already seen before. Perhaps he might cross swords with this Amazon ( all good sport ). Luxury nearly the point of decadence, he thought Remano was beautiful and still does, but this city – grand Aššur –  was the truer oasis in the golden sands and dust with flora he’d never beheld before in all his travels.  

                “ I’m afraid I’ve arrived ahead of my party. Are you the gatekeeper? Her stoicism answered for her and Muu only nodded and added with empty cheer. Oh, I suppose not.  He’d left his litter behind. the journey was painful for a big man in a tiny box, roasting as the sun rose to high noon – and now he waited for the noble entourage to catch up at the walls, filling the silence.  You’ve a name, perhaps? Me, I’m Muu of the Alexii.

Brow quirks a non-committal response, a slow inclination of the head acknowledging his praise and accepting it as it was, no movement from her post initiated at his approach — she had hailed, and he had come, such was proper decorum and now he withstood the bulk of her stare — a warm, silvery thing that pierces like a knife. ❛Twas an occasion of mutual appraisal, it would seem; the appreciation in his gaze as he looks upon her blade is un-mistaken. Gold can lie, as can pearls and smiles and pleasures of the flesh — but scars and steel do not lie. ( He is kindred with her warrior ilk — a pleasing notion. )

The façade the smooth-tiled roofs and expertly trimmed streets create — a land of wealth; a land of abundance; a land of equanimity — deludes residents and visitors alike, blinding them to the inner turmoil of the State and the mælstrom of the latter Hierarchy. The nobles play their Game of Power and the people toil along their frivolous paths, either oblivious or un-caring. She, however, hadn’t the luxury of selective in-awareness, as her status demanded that she partake in the Game. Her Sworn was an impetuous, vain man, capable of little else than complimenting his own reflection ( — yet by some Blessing of the Originals he possessed enough wisdom to attempt to strike a rapport with foreign Empires, to gain allies ), though of this she mutters no word nor allows any tincture of ill-sentiment to grace her visage. She recites the formalities —— ( they turn to ash upon her tongue ).

                I am Kālǐnn, Patū-Kīnatü, Mouthpiece for His Greatness;
                                    you are welcomed here, Mū of the Alexï.

Sprigs of spring burrs mellifluous speech, top-notes smooth and richly enunciated, her reply mirrored in his own language and heady with foreign descent. Her statement is a song and a song is her statement, no less delicate than it is fierce, enforced with rich under-tones that fortify the sweet clipping of words not born from her country. Lyre-tessitura confirms the femininity of the armour-clad warrior, lips as soft as any other demure maidens’ — eyes as hard as honed steel. Her presence was no coincidence, nor happening of Fate, but anticipation of a noble entourage — her bow is curt ( how does her fumble-fingered Master presume to make an ally of such a strong-willed people? ), and the succeeding statement is brusque and breathy;

                         ❛ Aššur is your home until you desire to leave.

Her pronunciation is awkward and disjointed, yet no less beautiful ( as is all in this domain! Golden sand, whimsical architecture, vibrant flora — textiles of rich fabrics and people of rich inheritance! Beauty has transformed the landscape ). She turns with a flourish, extending an arm towards her guest while her mere motion signals the opening of the thick, oak-wood gates behind her, a grand happening as hinges spit dust and men cry their labour as they open the colossal inner-gates for the Servant and the Visitor.

❛ I shall be your — escort, your tenure in Aššur. His Greatness will not see you until the rest of your entourage arrives and has rested — desire you refreshment or change of clothing?

She is persuasive in movement, coaxing him through the gates towards the Gardens, all regality and quick to occupy his attention —————— the gates creak shut behind them.

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