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It was rare that the gods deliberately distracted Miri from her daily tasks. She sat in her tent, sorting piles of new fabric and rearranging the décor—it helped to keep the mystery alive for repeated patrons—when they called her name in a different sort of whisper, Hathor’s voice rising sweetly above the others. Miri, we have a job for you. Miri frowned lightly, listening intently to the command. It was not one she had ever thought she would be set; surely others were better suited to this kind of task. And yet, she was chosen, and she must go. Something stirred in Miri’s chest, something not altogether unpleasant, but new and burning.
Startled eyes cast about her tent as though someone was listening in who would betray the foreign feeling of anxiousness. What if this was where she failed? The gods were certainly testing her to see if she was capable of giving every inch of herself to their service. And while she knew her body was more than up for the task, a seed of doubt lay deep in her mind. She had seen the way the whores seduced the circus visitors, seen the enticing expressions and sultry words. Miri’s confidence was different, subtler and laced with pride and stillness rather than… whatever those women had.
Gathering herself to her feet, Miri searched for something to wear. Her hands remained steady as she removed her normal flowing garb, folding it carefully on the table where she worked each night. Part of her allure as a fortune teller, she knew, came from her foreign, almost modest garb, and the thick accent she could have discarded months ago. Modesty was not what Miri of Lea required now. Instead she rooted through the drawers in the corner, finally pulling out a classic kalasiris, sized as it should be rather than with the extra length she requested. She tied the straps around her waist, shivering despite the heat in the tent. It was difficult to imagine walking around this exposed on a regular basis. She pulled a dark shawl from the pile of new fabrics, subtly embroidered with tiny golden stars, and draped it around her shoulders, making sure her whole body was covered. This task would not be so enjoyable if she removed the air of mystery about her from everyone’s eyes. Her hair she left alone, flowing gently about her shoulders, a few pieces trapped against her skin beneath the shawl.
Go. And off she went, obedient as always, toes digging into the warm sand, head held as high as ever. Miri did not acknowledge those she passed, pretending to be lost in the mystical world of the gods as a good prophet should be, though they seemed to have deserted her entirely. All except Hathor, who whispered sensual words of encouragement and left Miri’s spine tingling with something akin to excitement. She came to a halt outside the ringmaster’s tent, listening. The lack of sound meant he was likely alone, as the gods had said he would be. “It is Miri. Do you mind a bit of company? I have something to show you.” she called, waiting for his answer before slipping inside. Her fingers clutched anxiously at the corners of her shawl now, knowing what was to come.
“I had this shawl specially made,” Miri smiled, kohl-ringed eyes widening slightly with the effort of keeping her tone light and conversational. Now. Before she could stop herself, she slid the smooth fabric from her shoulders and offered it to Amenemhat, holding her posture tall despite the sudden urge to flee. “I was hoping to do a reading in it before our next show, for practice.”
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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It was rare that the gods deliberately distracted Miri from her daily tasks. She sat in her tent, sorting piles of new fabric and rearranging the décor—it helped to keep the mystery alive for repeated patrons—when they called her name in a different sort of whisper, Hathor’s voice rising sweetly above the others. Miri, we have a job for you. Miri frowned lightly, listening intently to the command. It was not one she had ever thought she would be set; surely others were better suited to this kind of task. And yet, she was chosen, and she must go. Something stirred in Miri’s chest, something not altogether unpleasant, but new and burning.
Startled eyes cast about her tent as though someone was listening in who would betray the foreign feeling of anxiousness. What if this was where she failed? The gods were certainly testing her to see if she was capable of giving every inch of herself to their service. And while she knew her body was more than up for the task, a seed of doubt lay deep in her mind. She had seen the way the whores seduced the circus visitors, seen the enticing expressions and sultry words. Miri’s confidence was different, subtler and laced with pride and stillness rather than… whatever those women had.
Gathering herself to her feet, Miri searched for something to wear. Her hands remained steady as she removed her normal flowing garb, folding it carefully on the table where she worked each night. Part of her allure as a fortune teller, she knew, came from her foreign, almost modest garb, and the thick accent she could have discarded months ago. Modesty was not what Miri of Lea required now. Instead she rooted through the drawers in the corner, finally pulling out a classic kalasiris, sized as it should be rather than with the extra length she requested. She tied the straps around her waist, shivering despite the heat in the tent. It was difficult to imagine walking around this exposed on a regular basis. She pulled a dark shawl from the pile of new fabrics, subtly embroidered with tiny golden stars, and draped it around her shoulders, making sure her whole body was covered. This task would not be so enjoyable if she removed the air of mystery about her from everyone’s eyes. Her hair she left alone, flowing gently about her shoulders, a few pieces trapped against her skin beneath the shawl.
Go. And off she went, obedient as always, toes digging into the warm sand, head held as high as ever. Miri did not acknowledge those she passed, pretending to be lost in the mystical world of the gods as a good prophet should be, though they seemed to have deserted her entirely. All except Hathor, who whispered sensual words of encouragement and left Miri’s spine tingling with something akin to excitement. She came to a halt outside the ringmaster’s tent, listening. The lack of sound meant he was likely alone, as the gods had said he would be. “It is Miri. Do you mind a bit of company? I have something to show you.” she called, waiting for his answer before slipping inside. Her fingers clutched anxiously at the corners of her shawl now, knowing what was to come.
“I had this shawl specially made,” Miri smiled, kohl-ringed eyes widening slightly with the effort of keeping her tone light and conversational. Now. Before she could stop herself, she slid the smooth fabric from her shoulders and offered it to Amenemhat, holding her posture tall despite the sudden urge to flee. “I was hoping to do a reading in it before our next show, for practice.”
It was rare that the gods deliberately distracted Miri from her daily tasks. She sat in her tent, sorting piles of new fabric and rearranging the décor—it helped to keep the mystery alive for repeated patrons—when they called her name in a different sort of whisper, Hathor’s voice rising sweetly above the others. Miri, we have a job for you. Miri frowned lightly, listening intently to the command. It was not one she had ever thought she would be set; surely others were better suited to this kind of task. And yet, she was chosen, and she must go. Something stirred in Miri’s chest, something not altogether unpleasant, but new and burning.
Startled eyes cast about her tent as though someone was listening in who would betray the foreign feeling of anxiousness. What if this was where she failed? The gods were certainly testing her to see if she was capable of giving every inch of herself to their service. And while she knew her body was more than up for the task, a seed of doubt lay deep in her mind. She had seen the way the whores seduced the circus visitors, seen the enticing expressions and sultry words. Miri’s confidence was different, subtler and laced with pride and stillness rather than… whatever those women had.
Gathering herself to her feet, Miri searched for something to wear. Her hands remained steady as she removed her normal flowing garb, folding it carefully on the table where she worked each night. Part of her allure as a fortune teller, she knew, came from her foreign, almost modest garb, and the thick accent she could have discarded months ago. Modesty was not what Miri of Lea required now. Instead she rooted through the drawers in the corner, finally pulling out a classic kalasiris, sized as it should be rather than with the extra length she requested. She tied the straps around her waist, shivering despite the heat in the tent. It was difficult to imagine walking around this exposed on a regular basis. She pulled a dark shawl from the pile of new fabrics, subtly embroidered with tiny golden stars, and draped it around her shoulders, making sure her whole body was covered. This task would not be so enjoyable if she removed the air of mystery about her from everyone’s eyes. Her hair she left alone, flowing gently about her shoulders, a few pieces trapped against her skin beneath the shawl.
Go. And off she went, obedient as always, toes digging into the warm sand, head held as high as ever. Miri did not acknowledge those she passed, pretending to be lost in the mystical world of the gods as a good prophet should be, though they seemed to have deserted her entirely. All except Hathor, who whispered sensual words of encouragement and left Miri’s spine tingling with something akin to excitement. She came to a halt outside the ringmaster’s tent, listening. The lack of sound meant he was likely alone, as the gods had said he would be. “It is Miri. Do you mind a bit of company? I have something to show you.” she called, waiting for his answer before slipping inside. Her fingers clutched anxiously at the corners of her shawl now, knowing what was to come.
“I had this shawl specially made,” Miri smiled, kohl-ringed eyes widening slightly with the effort of keeping her tone light and conversational. Now. Before she could stop herself, she slid the smooth fabric from her shoulders and offered it to Amenemhat, holding her posture tall despite the sudden urge to flee. “I was hoping to do a reading in it before our next show, for practice.”
Water had the power to cleanse the body and the mind of its impurities.
Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set felt the moisture pool between the wrinkles on his forehead and the space between his eyes. He felt it skid unevenly against his flesh, marred by dried crimson that caked against the down hairs upon his features, Drizzled along his fingernails, the back of his hands, and the flesh of his forearms was the very same blood, a pittance compared to the deluge that had arisen from his activities of before.
Blood and death were necessary sacrifices to the God of Chaos, penance paid for insolence and unwillingness to be broken through conventional methods. Torture, when resorted to, was quite the effective tool. And all too seldom was it him that was able to carry it out. He'd had a socket of time made available to him, and he'd arranged for the seeds of a slave rebellion to be stamped out in that window. Confident now that those miserable souls who toiled between purposeless existence and meager allowances would remain bound to their place, Amenemhat had removed his mask only to find it steeped in blood.
A bath was what he'd needed to restore himself to proper form, and the ringmaster of the Tempest of Set draped himself in a shawl of his own, dampened against his hydrated skin and accompanied by a shendyt that allowed him a modicum of modesty in the midst of the rest of his body being plain for most to see. Once he'd properly been cleansed and dried, he found himself in his tent, a rough fingertip prodding at the fount that held his personal store of face paint.
He always enjoyed making his own façade, never relying upon outside help to sculpt the finely painted lines upon his features, the swirls at his chest and along the length of his arms. The colours and sigils of the Tempest of Set materialized within his mind's eye, the ringmaster's thoughts drawn like a magnet to the performances that gave his coffers coin to feed it and his life a purpose from which to find its significance.
If there is anything I should be doing instead, let me never find out, he ruminated, just as he heard shifting sands outside of his tent. The ringmaster did not turn to greet his guest when she entered. He could tell it was a she, for the shift of the tarp was subtle, and the footsteps that padded against the thick fabric that stopped the sand from infiltrating the tent were light.
Then, Miri of Lea spoke, he'd turn, letting her visage find the periphery of his vision. The embroidered shawl she wore, it certainly seemed new. He caught sight of it before it was mentioned, and the way she directly mentioned it had him wondering exactly what the purpose of the fortune teller's visit was. Amenemhat and Miri got along. She was a quiet, dedicated sort, given to her delusions of godly insight with little reason for Amenemhat to dissuade the notion. Let the performers indulge in their fantasies, they often yielded better results when left to their own strategies.
Intrigued by the smile he found upon Miri's lips, Amenemhat turned to face her properly. He took the offered fabric in his hand, a ginger grasp taken with it. She'd spent her own money on this façade and, admittedly, she'd found something of good enough make.
But, there were other sights to see. Miri often shrouded herself in masses of cloth, excessively so given the heat bound by Egypt and the particular distaste for clothing at all. Covering one's breasts so fully, shielding flesh meant to be touched and admired... Amenemhat pitied those who were so hesitant to lavish themselves with the simple satisfaction of nudity. Seeing her exposed as she was, with breasts bared to his scrutiny with overt intention. It was curious and more than welcome.
"Is that so? An unexpected reason to come to my tent, but not an unwelcome one. I have, to my good fortune, a bit of time to let fall by the wayside. What sort of performance is it, that you have yourself dressed more like a native?"
Certainly, Amenemhat saw her, and the fine curves of her slight, pale form. A tiny creature, she stood more than a head beneath him, and he drew towards her, making that difference in height more and more noticeable just as the distance between them was reduced to nil.
"Where would you have me? For your reading?" he asked, deliberately wording his question so as to toy with the fortune teller's Judean (which was to say, prudish) sensibilities.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Water had the power to cleanse the body and the mind of its impurities.
Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set felt the moisture pool between the wrinkles on his forehead and the space between his eyes. He felt it skid unevenly against his flesh, marred by dried crimson that caked against the down hairs upon his features, Drizzled along his fingernails, the back of his hands, and the flesh of his forearms was the very same blood, a pittance compared to the deluge that had arisen from his activities of before.
Blood and death were necessary sacrifices to the God of Chaos, penance paid for insolence and unwillingness to be broken through conventional methods. Torture, when resorted to, was quite the effective tool. And all too seldom was it him that was able to carry it out. He'd had a socket of time made available to him, and he'd arranged for the seeds of a slave rebellion to be stamped out in that window. Confident now that those miserable souls who toiled between purposeless existence and meager allowances would remain bound to their place, Amenemhat had removed his mask only to find it steeped in blood.
A bath was what he'd needed to restore himself to proper form, and the ringmaster of the Tempest of Set draped himself in a shawl of his own, dampened against his hydrated skin and accompanied by a shendyt that allowed him a modicum of modesty in the midst of the rest of his body being plain for most to see. Once he'd properly been cleansed and dried, he found himself in his tent, a rough fingertip prodding at the fount that held his personal store of face paint.
He always enjoyed making his own façade, never relying upon outside help to sculpt the finely painted lines upon his features, the swirls at his chest and along the length of his arms. The colours and sigils of the Tempest of Set materialized within his mind's eye, the ringmaster's thoughts drawn like a magnet to the performances that gave his coffers coin to feed it and his life a purpose from which to find its significance.
If there is anything I should be doing instead, let me never find out, he ruminated, just as he heard shifting sands outside of his tent. The ringmaster did not turn to greet his guest when she entered. He could tell it was a she, for the shift of the tarp was subtle, and the footsteps that padded against the thick fabric that stopped the sand from infiltrating the tent were light.
Then, Miri of Lea spoke, he'd turn, letting her visage find the periphery of his vision. The embroidered shawl she wore, it certainly seemed new. He caught sight of it before it was mentioned, and the way she directly mentioned it had him wondering exactly what the purpose of the fortune teller's visit was. Amenemhat and Miri got along. She was a quiet, dedicated sort, given to her delusions of godly insight with little reason for Amenemhat to dissuade the notion. Let the performers indulge in their fantasies, they often yielded better results when left to their own strategies.
Intrigued by the smile he found upon Miri's lips, Amenemhat turned to face her properly. He took the offered fabric in his hand, a ginger grasp taken with it. She'd spent her own money on this façade and, admittedly, she'd found something of good enough make.
But, there were other sights to see. Miri often shrouded herself in masses of cloth, excessively so given the heat bound by Egypt and the particular distaste for clothing at all. Covering one's breasts so fully, shielding flesh meant to be touched and admired... Amenemhat pitied those who were so hesitant to lavish themselves with the simple satisfaction of nudity. Seeing her exposed as she was, with breasts bared to his scrutiny with overt intention. It was curious and more than welcome.
"Is that so? An unexpected reason to come to my tent, but not an unwelcome one. I have, to my good fortune, a bit of time to let fall by the wayside. What sort of performance is it, that you have yourself dressed more like a native?"
Certainly, Amenemhat saw her, and the fine curves of her slight, pale form. A tiny creature, she stood more than a head beneath him, and he drew towards her, making that difference in height more and more noticeable just as the distance between them was reduced to nil.
"Where would you have me? For your reading?" he asked, deliberately wording his question so as to toy with the fortune teller's Judean (which was to say, prudish) sensibilities.
Water had the power to cleanse the body and the mind of its impurities.
Amenemhat of the Tempest of Set felt the moisture pool between the wrinkles on his forehead and the space between his eyes. He felt it skid unevenly against his flesh, marred by dried crimson that caked against the down hairs upon his features, Drizzled along his fingernails, the back of his hands, and the flesh of his forearms was the very same blood, a pittance compared to the deluge that had arisen from his activities of before.
Blood and death were necessary sacrifices to the God of Chaos, penance paid for insolence and unwillingness to be broken through conventional methods. Torture, when resorted to, was quite the effective tool. And all too seldom was it him that was able to carry it out. He'd had a socket of time made available to him, and he'd arranged for the seeds of a slave rebellion to be stamped out in that window. Confident now that those miserable souls who toiled between purposeless existence and meager allowances would remain bound to their place, Amenemhat had removed his mask only to find it steeped in blood.
A bath was what he'd needed to restore himself to proper form, and the ringmaster of the Tempest of Set draped himself in a shawl of his own, dampened against his hydrated skin and accompanied by a shendyt that allowed him a modicum of modesty in the midst of the rest of his body being plain for most to see. Once he'd properly been cleansed and dried, he found himself in his tent, a rough fingertip prodding at the fount that held his personal store of face paint.
He always enjoyed making his own façade, never relying upon outside help to sculpt the finely painted lines upon his features, the swirls at his chest and along the length of his arms. The colours and sigils of the Tempest of Set materialized within his mind's eye, the ringmaster's thoughts drawn like a magnet to the performances that gave his coffers coin to feed it and his life a purpose from which to find its significance.
If there is anything I should be doing instead, let me never find out, he ruminated, just as he heard shifting sands outside of his tent. The ringmaster did not turn to greet his guest when she entered. He could tell it was a she, for the shift of the tarp was subtle, and the footsteps that padded against the thick fabric that stopped the sand from infiltrating the tent were light.
Then, Miri of Lea spoke, he'd turn, letting her visage find the periphery of his vision. The embroidered shawl she wore, it certainly seemed new. He caught sight of it before it was mentioned, and the way she directly mentioned it had him wondering exactly what the purpose of the fortune teller's visit was. Amenemhat and Miri got along. She was a quiet, dedicated sort, given to her delusions of godly insight with little reason for Amenemhat to dissuade the notion. Let the performers indulge in their fantasies, they often yielded better results when left to their own strategies.
Intrigued by the smile he found upon Miri's lips, Amenemhat turned to face her properly. He took the offered fabric in his hand, a ginger grasp taken with it. She'd spent her own money on this façade and, admittedly, she'd found something of good enough make.
But, there were other sights to see. Miri often shrouded herself in masses of cloth, excessively so given the heat bound by Egypt and the particular distaste for clothing at all. Covering one's breasts so fully, shielding flesh meant to be touched and admired... Amenemhat pitied those who were so hesitant to lavish themselves with the simple satisfaction of nudity. Seeing her exposed as she was, with breasts bared to his scrutiny with overt intention. It was curious and more than welcome.
"Is that so? An unexpected reason to come to my tent, but not an unwelcome one. I have, to my good fortune, a bit of time to let fall by the wayside. What sort of performance is it, that you have yourself dressed more like a native?"
Certainly, Amenemhat saw her, and the fine curves of her slight, pale form. A tiny creature, she stood more than a head beneath him, and he drew towards her, making that difference in height more and more noticeable just as the distance between them was reduced to nil.
"Where would you have me? For your reading?" he asked, deliberately wording his question so as to toy with the fortune teller's Judean (which was to say, prudish) sensibilities.
Miri did not—could not—miss the way Amenemhat looked at her. She rarely missed anything as it was, but this… He looked at her with curiosity, a strange patience, something else that she might have imagined. Miri loved movement, craved the ways a body could bend and twist. And yet she knew that her modesty, her cold eyes, drew others away. No one had ever looked at her the way she craved. And now the man she served above any other mortal was in front of her, moving closer and closer until he towered before her. Hazel eyes held with his darker ones, her chin tipping up to maintain the gaze.
Her shawl looked delicate in his fingers. It could so easily tear, and yet he handled it with a sort of careful disinterest. She raised her hands to tug it oh so gently from his grasp, resisting the urge to shiver once more. “A special sort of performance,” she murmured, eyes still never leaving his. “Not meant for the public. It will… enhance my ability to hear the circus’s fortune.” The pair had little in common apart from their love for the circus, and Miri’s love came from her devotion to the man before her. From the gods’ own lips.
Miri drew back by a fraction of an inch, her breath catching in her throat as his words. Where would you have me? The gods, the gods, this was their will. And the task was far from unwelcome, even if she trembled, even if she felt a tingle of shame. At last her eyes lowered, lingering on his broad chest before casting about the room for a suitable place for the… performance. Her fingers followed suit, allowing her shawl to float to the floor in favor of lightly tracing the lines of his stomach. He was so close; Miri could scarcely imagine how she was meant to complete this task if his mere proximity was enough to make her breathing uneven.
“I would… have you… sit… there,” she said at last, tipping her head towards the colorful cushions on the floor. Connect, connect. “The ground holds a certain power, connection.” Her voice came lower and softer than she thought possible. Miri could no longer meet Amenemhat’s eye. The gods had commanded her, yes, but they had not commanded him. He could send her away, laugh in her face, break the warm trance that was threatening to burn in the pit of her stomach. This could ruin her. Or the gods could have given her the greatest of gifts, an endless moment she could remember each time the volume built in her head, each time she doubted.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Miri did not—could not—miss the way Amenemhat looked at her. She rarely missed anything as it was, but this… He looked at her with curiosity, a strange patience, something else that she might have imagined. Miri loved movement, craved the ways a body could bend and twist. And yet she knew that her modesty, her cold eyes, drew others away. No one had ever looked at her the way she craved. And now the man she served above any other mortal was in front of her, moving closer and closer until he towered before her. Hazel eyes held with his darker ones, her chin tipping up to maintain the gaze.
Her shawl looked delicate in his fingers. It could so easily tear, and yet he handled it with a sort of careful disinterest. She raised her hands to tug it oh so gently from his grasp, resisting the urge to shiver once more. “A special sort of performance,” she murmured, eyes still never leaving his. “Not meant for the public. It will… enhance my ability to hear the circus’s fortune.” The pair had little in common apart from their love for the circus, and Miri’s love came from her devotion to the man before her. From the gods’ own lips.
Miri drew back by a fraction of an inch, her breath catching in her throat as his words. Where would you have me? The gods, the gods, this was their will. And the task was far from unwelcome, even if she trembled, even if she felt a tingle of shame. At last her eyes lowered, lingering on his broad chest before casting about the room for a suitable place for the… performance. Her fingers followed suit, allowing her shawl to float to the floor in favor of lightly tracing the lines of his stomach. He was so close; Miri could scarcely imagine how she was meant to complete this task if his mere proximity was enough to make her breathing uneven.
“I would… have you… sit… there,” she said at last, tipping her head towards the colorful cushions on the floor. Connect, connect. “The ground holds a certain power, connection.” Her voice came lower and softer than she thought possible. Miri could no longer meet Amenemhat’s eye. The gods had commanded her, yes, but they had not commanded him. He could send her away, laugh in her face, break the warm trance that was threatening to burn in the pit of her stomach. This could ruin her. Or the gods could have given her the greatest of gifts, an endless moment she could remember each time the volume built in her head, each time she doubted.
Miri did not—could not—miss the way Amenemhat looked at her. She rarely missed anything as it was, but this… He looked at her with curiosity, a strange patience, something else that she might have imagined. Miri loved movement, craved the ways a body could bend and twist. And yet she knew that her modesty, her cold eyes, drew others away. No one had ever looked at her the way she craved. And now the man she served above any other mortal was in front of her, moving closer and closer until he towered before her. Hazel eyes held with his darker ones, her chin tipping up to maintain the gaze.
Her shawl looked delicate in his fingers. It could so easily tear, and yet he handled it with a sort of careful disinterest. She raised her hands to tug it oh so gently from his grasp, resisting the urge to shiver once more. “A special sort of performance,” she murmured, eyes still never leaving his. “Not meant for the public. It will… enhance my ability to hear the circus’s fortune.” The pair had little in common apart from their love for the circus, and Miri’s love came from her devotion to the man before her. From the gods’ own lips.
Miri drew back by a fraction of an inch, her breath catching in her throat as his words. Where would you have me? The gods, the gods, this was their will. And the task was far from unwelcome, even if she trembled, even if she felt a tingle of shame. At last her eyes lowered, lingering on his broad chest before casting about the room for a suitable place for the… performance. Her fingers followed suit, allowing her shawl to float to the floor in favor of lightly tracing the lines of his stomach. He was so close; Miri could scarcely imagine how she was meant to complete this task if his mere proximity was enough to make her breathing uneven.
“I would… have you… sit… there,” she said at last, tipping her head towards the colorful cushions on the floor. Connect, connect. “The ground holds a certain power, connection.” Her voice came lower and softer than she thought possible. Miri could no longer meet Amenemhat’s eye. The gods had commanded her, yes, but they had not commanded him. He could send her away, laugh in her face, break the warm trance that was threatening to burn in the pit of her stomach. This could ruin her. Or the gods could have given her the greatest of gifts, an endless moment she could remember each time the volume built in her head, each time she doubted.
