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ใ€Œ ๐šŠ๐š๐šŸ. ๐š ๐š›๐š’๐š๐šŽ๐š› ใ€ ใ€Œ ๐šŒ๐š˜๐š—๐šŒ๐šŽ๐š™๐š๐šž๐šŠ๐š• ๐š—๐š˜๐šŸ๐šŽ๐š•๐š’๐šœ๐š ใ€ ใ€Œ ๐š๐š›๐šŠ๐š™๐š‘๐š’๐šŒ ๐š๐šŽ๐šœ๐š’๐š๐š—๐šŽ๐š› ใ€ ใ€Œ ๐š๐š›๐šŠ๐š๐š’๐š๐š’๐š˜๐š—๐šŠ๐š• ๐šŠ๐š—๐š ๐š๐š’๐š๐š’๐š๐šŠ๐š• ๐šŠ๐š›๐š๐š’๐šœ๐š ใ€ ใ€Œ ๐šŠ๐š•๐š ๐šŠ๐šข๐šœ ๐š๐š’๐š›๐šŽ๐š ใ€

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แด‡ แด  แด‡ ษด ษช ๊œฐ ษช แด› แด› แด€ แด‹ แด‡ ๊œฑ แด€ สŸ สŸ ษด ษช ษข สœ แด› แด ส€ แด€ สœ แดœ ษด แด… ส€ แด‡ แด… Y แด‡ แด€ ส€ ๊œฑ.
๐’ƒ ๐’† ๐’• ๐’• ๐’† ๐’“ ๐’… ๐’‚ ๐’š ๐’” .
๐’ƒ ๐’† ๐’• ๐’• ๐’† ๐’“ ๐’… ๐’‚ ๐’š ๐’” .


[ ๐šŠ๐š—๐šž๐š‹๐š’๐šœ' ๐š˜๐š๐š๐š’๐šŒ๐šŽ โ—† ๐š๐š‘๐šŽ ๐š•๐š’๐š๐š๐š•๐šŽ ๐š–๐šŠ๐š›๐š“๐š˜๐š›๐šŠ๐š– ].............
โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ



Familiarity was an intimate acquaintance to all beings immortal. It bred not only contempt but also melancholy. It was conceptualism wed to flickering dรฉjร  vu that broke across the mind in waves of wistful memoirs; each tremble of wanting imagery was a quivering pass of phantom touches. Tortures.

Bastet could only offer and lay blame to the willing spike that chained her to fate irreplaceable and eternally cruel as before her loomed a familiar facet of days gone by. Though, this was a different time, a different place, and a different building that eclipsed her pleasantly against the settled evening. Here there was a break of an absence of a summoning text or a hastily placed phone call that would've brought her to this plane of consistency, the words were often sweet things, whispers of affection that brought with it broken laughter. She's been here once, maybe twice, always on the whims of the heart and late hours that kept him there. Chained, she thinks, beautiful, golden chains spliced with obsidian and thick brass. Bound willingly, Bastet had to remind herself often, for even with her tugging on those restraints, they gave not under her touches that gifted solace and pain. From the shadow at her heels comes a soft mewl, an inquiry of concern that brings her soft gaze down and away from where she would, without a doubt, enter into once more.

"It's okay."

Such a simplistic fallacy. It's a mantra that flings itself upon the chasm of her disparity the moment her cooled fingers ply open the doors -- oh there's one more delivery I should make -- and the foyer greets her with an unmanned desk. Amber luminescence toned down, it's past normal office hours after all, but somewhere yonder where assistants would be there to seek her intentions, she knew he would still be there working.

You're okay, it's okay, this is okay.

She veers to the right on memory but she feels like a silhouette upon the fringes of a dream, her gestures are sluggish in comparison to her usual elegance and somewhere betwixt her ears her heart lays and drums to a hummingbird's wing. It's the soft twine of a tail around her calf that brings her clarity and golden eyes that pierce to the depths of her anxiety to vanquish the panic that has risen to her throat. It's just Anubis, Bastet's scolds.

It's only the man you love.

His office is all dark grain woods and black ran through with gold and immaculate to near-obsessive compulsion, it's what she expects of him as she enters his office without so much as a knock to announce her. He'd know it was her. Or maybe Ammit, but she imagines that latter to barrel through with all the subtlety of her animal manifest. Still, Bastet ghosts her path to his desk held within incredible order, not a single object kept out of place and every accessory aligned. It's not until she comes to a standstill that she breathes, finally, and flattens her palms against the quiver in her belly.

"Should've known you'd be here. Keeping late hours, again."

The hunch of his spine, creaking with the weight of life that never leaves him. Always buzzing around and pulling him to and fro, it is by this direction that heโ€™s spent another day at his desk. The papers are a scattered mess, an outlier among the order of the room, but itโ€™s a testament to the growing stress and the control thatโ€™s slipping between his fingertips.

Tension coils his muscles taut, the grind of his teeth deafens his ears, dark eyes scan over the documents, thereโ€™s a missing piece to this puzzle, and itโ€™s the roadblock to freedom for an innocent man. Only the melody of a voice that tugged at the strings of his heart before it registered in his mind broke his focus. Blinking away the words the threatened to burn into his mind, with how many times he read them, his vision was filled with Bastet.

Surprise flickered across his face for a moment before a furrow rested between his brow in confusion. A question caught on his tongue, and almost slipped away from him before he swallowed it down. Anubis was happy to see her and thankful for the chance after the mess of the conclave. The Guide of the Dead pushed back his chair, relaxing against the plush leather, and nodded at her words.

โ€œPerhaps centuries of a similar routine have made me too predictable, but the same does not apply to you.โ€ A comfortable smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he motions for Bastet to sit wherever sheโ€™d like, โ€œI am happy to see you again, especially after the events of the conclave. How are you?โ€

Her responses are simplistic. Itโ€™s easy, almost, to slip into the adoring simpers that grace upon her features at his quip, his voice a remedy to the plague of her previous uncertainty. Bastet laughs, a quiet bell that springs from her throat whilst her gaze turns oblique, cutting through the fringe of her lashes at his confession and inquiry.

โ€œI suppose not.โ€ She rejoins cooly, absently tracing her nails against the seam of a leather-bound chair. How many clients have been here, facing towards a God of the Dead?

โ€œIโ€™m as well as I can be, as any of us are.โ€ Itโ€™s the lingering reaping of the damned that she contemplates at that moment, for even they were subjected to an eternal fall from grace. โ€œAnd you?โ€ Bastet mutters, her golden gaze fleeting, tracing scattered papers she hadnโ€™t noticed before, their haphazardous display stark in relation to his usual equanimity.

A shrug of nonchalance meets her inquiry, his gaze averting further from her truth seeking eyes. Anubis doesnโ€™t feel like being read in this moment, or talking about how he has been, at least not truthfully, so he settles for a sellable, โ€Fine.โ€ But he knows thatโ€™s not enough, not for someone that had seen his heart, and so he tries again after clearing his throat and running his hands over his sweater clad chest, โ€œI mean, Iโ€™m doing fine, between the news from the conclave and my cases Iโ€™ve been-โ€scared, tired, worried, helpless, the words are swallowed down and the God of emotional dishonesty the Dead motions to his desk, โ€œseverely busy.โ€

Anubis nods at the answer, heโ€™s satisfied with the half-truths. The chime of his phone distracts him momentarily, a reminder for Imentetโ€™s gathering lights up the screen and heโ€™s already putting his desk back into order, โ€œCare to accompany me to the tea house? I can take you home after as well.โ€ Thereโ€™s an underlying hope in his tone, his tidying pauses to glance up at her, his obsidian eyes softer than they had been days ago.

Itโ€™s not the answer she desires, but itโ€™s the only answer heโ€™s willing to give. The slight proffer, though subdued and carefully restrained, is suspended on both lie and truth, and Bastet deciphers the charade with ease. Somewhere between his doubling effort, a sigh plumes into the air; an all too knowing slip of wistfulness and hope hung upon words she has heard before. Severely busy was entirely an understatement, sheโ€™s witnessed the immense workload he undertakes and even endowed well in strength and obligated cause, Bastet has to wonder -- yet again -- just how much a man could endure.

โ€œI see.โ€ Itโ€™s a silent admission of peace and a promise to not inquire further to his state of affairs, for it would only lead to a dead end. Bastet knows an omission when presented, especially one sputtered from his lips and eyes cast purposely low in retreat. She reads the lines of his profile instead, settling for a gentle reproach. โ€œI can only imagine how busy.โ€

And she could. The conjuring memory was of heated words and strained pleas against hopeless tongues, of biting nails and rigid bones yielding under pliant flesh. Itโ€™s the softness of his obsidian gaze that brings her forward, her gestures quiet whilst she gathers papers within her palms and hands them forward.

โ€œIโ€™d love to.โ€ She answered truthfully, lips drawn into an affectionate smile.

Anubis met her offering halfway, the graze against her fingers sent a familiar electricity buzzing along the muscles in his arm. The final touches matched the desk to the rest of the room, and everything was back in order. With his keys and phone in hand he offered an empty arm to Bastet, โ€œIt has been a while since youโ€™ve last visited the tea house.โ€ Anubisโ€™ tone bordered that of a question hidden within the observation he provided.

He really wanted to know why she stopped coming, but some part of him already knows the answer. A large part of him does not want to hear her say it, at least not tonight. Tonight Anubis wants to let his worries melt over the delicious tea Imentet would provide and laugh along to the vibrant stories his family would certainly share.

Itโ€™s immediate the way she takes his arm with fingers aligned against his forearm and nearly just as instant thereโ€™s a jolt that coils from palm and upward to nestle against her ribs. Itโ€™s that surge of familiarity once more that nearly robs breathe and reason from Bastet but then thereโ€™s the calm. The soothing relation and ambiance that Anubis provides in his simple act of offering her passage to and from the tea house.

โ€œIโ€™ve beenโ€ฆ Busy.โ€ Itโ€™s an ironic admission, an excuse that she has coined from his own repertoire of justification, and the truth of the utterance is not lost upon her. โ€œBetween patients, clients; you know how it goes.โ€ Bastet waves her hand as if to banish their intrusion into her thoughts that very instant.

โ€œIโ€™ve even been offering time at the shelter, strays are abundant in this city, the cats and I do what we can to protect them.โ€

Bastet is careful to avoid mentioning just how far her influence has gone among the many, and how her cats have a constant watch of the shadows, even the ones at their very heels. Instead of attempting to reason the real cause behind her absence -- not just from the tea house -- she nestles against him and lays her head against his shoulder, allowing herself just this tiny sliver of sudden peace.

โ€œThe city is always bustling with life, overflowing even, and that makes us all far too busy for our own good.โ€ Anubisโ€™ reply is soft and without any inclination of pestering or accusing. Outside of the courtroom he liked to take people at face-value, he could see into the hearts of man but usually let their wickedness remain behind a mask of beauty.

The night around them was quiet in this part of town near the bay. Partly the reason Anubis chose it. The street was empty of traffic and the only sound was that of their footfalls and easy chatter. A minute felt like a few seconds, their nights felt like small moments in time, and days passed in a blink of an eye when he spent time with the Feline Goddess. Anubis feels at peace in her presence, his mind is clear and his tensions have eased away as Bastetโ€™s heat and weight rest comfortably against his side.

The goddess is safe in his presence from any harm that would dare to even look her way, โ€œThis reminds me of simpler times, before I became so involved in my work.โ€ Anubisโ€™ tone is far away, his eyes gazing at the stars above them, โ€œWe are like planets in opposite orbits, coming together and drifting apart in cycles. I am embarrassed to admit that itโ€™s taken the threat of an enigmatic foe to inspire some reflection on my choices and actions, but I have been thinking about my place among mortals, about our brothers and sister and about you.โ€

Anubis stops beside his sleek black car, leaning against the side and allowing his hands to cup Bastetโ€™s face affectionately. The dark gaze that met her earlier is alight with love and honesty and his words are dipped in an aged melancholy, โ€I can not envision a life where I idly stand by in the face of injustices. I cannot fathom turning my back on the descendants of our people that need my help, and so I must continue with this duty. But I cannot imagine being able to carry on in any measure without you here, Bastet. I am a lesser man than I was a god, and as a god, I was cast aside many times, but I have learned in this endless existence that change and growth are not kept far away from our grasps. My heart aches for the mortals, but it beats for you Bast, and I only wish to prove that to you in the coming days, if you will allow me.โ€ Anubis finishes with a deep inhale and a small smile settled on his lips.

โ€œAnubisโ€ฆโ€ His name is a breathless prayer that spirals into a mantra that gallops recklessly betwixt her ribs aching to confine her heart. The struggle is nearly euphoric, her voice carrying silken intonations of yearning, โ€œThere are days and nights where I want nothing more, I fear these mortal times, I am fearful of this sudden reaper thatโ€™s stalking after our souls and what it means. I know what you feel that you must do, I may not have always agreed, but I understand. I want to protect them too.โ€ She smooths her palms against the planes of his chest, memory serving their path whilst electricity bounces from her gestures, the subtle twinge of attraction, desire, and need sparkling from her fingertips.

โ€œWe are nothing like we once were, but if I could rewrite the tales of our divinity, I would.โ€ Thereโ€™s power and abandon flung upon her statement, sinking deep into the gold of her eyes that bury themselves lost and forgotten into the darkness of his gaze. Against the warning that sounds off in her head much like a funeral tole for the damned fools of love, the Feline Goddess surrenders to the God of Death. Likened to smoldering embers fanned to life, she whispers, โ€œDeath may come for me tomorrow, and I would not hold any regrets, so long as I can share this night with you.โ€

Itโ€™s there in her voice: love. The promises of their confessions, of the words they share, and this moment in time suspended just for them. A creature of life and song and one of death and sanction that merge beyond their godly and mortal limitations to bask in the eternal bonds of man and woman. For that moment, Bastet cast aside the anguish of her lonely nights that sired his likeness in her dreams and allowed the warmth of his touch and words to melt into the very depths of her soul that shone so brightly then, just for him.

With their promises for better days invoked, Anubis seals the moment with a soft meeting of their lips. Thereโ€™s an eagerness he holds back, giving his all into a kiss would further set back their arrival to Imentetโ€™s gathering and she was a woman better left not waiting. Reluctantly he parts their sweet affections, his caress along her face lingers a moment longer before heโ€™s breaking the enchantment of their proximity by opening the car door, โ€œWeโ€™ll set off like bandits in the night once again, for the treasures of tea and laughter.โ€ He canโ€™t pass up a chance for another stolen kiss before he joins her taking his place behind the wheel, a smile he cannot hide tugging the corners of his lips upward, โ€œIโ€™m glad the winds of the changing season carried you my way, Malikatiโ€

How long has it been since they last kissed? Touched? Or the last moment where he smiled so. Bastet couldnโ€™t contain that bubble of laughter that escaped so suddenly, her heart and body lightened at the moment from endless days of lonely burden. She settled in his car easily, but not before she gave the shadows a glance, finding that her familiars had already departed.

โ€œThen lead us there, Malik! With the winds at our back, the night is ours to make.โ€

It was like stepping into the past, almost, being here with him and suspended high on love, promises, and sealed kisses of entanglement. The purr of the vehicle lulls her into bliss and every so often their eyes would clash and unabashed Bastet would gaze upon his mouth where he had stolen her breath and heart (again) just moments before. Itโ€™s the promising evening that prevents her from setting upon him with that ravenous appetite the stews away in her belly, coming low and bringing a powerful quiver up the links of her spine. He guides them through traffic seamlessly and with ease and even in such a mortal gesture, itโ€™s perfectly controlled and bound with an order that no mere man could obtain.

With the tea house quickly coming into view she feels a sudden and prickling sensation of unease, undoubtedly Imentet would be pleased to see her, and the cats have missed being apart of social gatherings of her kith and kin, but thereโ€™s the guilt of having been away for so long that sidles her anxiety. She quickly glances to her phone whilst Anubis places his car to park -- even that is perfect, fluid, as he lines up perfectly between painted lines -- and notices an unread email, within her personal inbox no less. She deigns to read it later, following the silhouette outside tinted windows that comes to her side and opens the door for her, old habits, she muses with a delicate smile.

โ€œIt really has been so long,โ€ she whispers, absently twirling a braid with her index finger in a quant sign of agitated emotes. Instantly her calves are met with entwined tails and soft fur, her eyes drawn down at the trio affectionately at her feet. โ€œI bet youโ€™re all excited to be here. Best behaviors, youโ€™re the only cats allowed in such a place you know.โ€ They mewl in eager response, trotting up to the doors and awaiting entrance at their leave, golden eyes cast upon them.

โ€œShall we?โ€ She said, uneasy laughter plucking upon her vocals and bringing them an octave higher.

Anubis weaves his finger between hers, giving an affectionate squeeze, โ€œThey will all be glad to see you.โ€ He offers in encouragement before leading them forward. The inside of the tea house was as welcoming as ever, the small space was big enough to host a decent sized crowd on the weekend night, and the chatter among tables never rose to a level that drowned out the live music coming from a dimly lit corner of the room.

โ€œSheโ€™s waiting downstairs for yโ€™all. Have fun down there Kai, and itโ€™s great to see you finally getting back into the dating scene.โ€ The familiar young woman offered a playful smile and wag of her brows before she was twirling off to tend to her patrons.

โ€œEveryone always seems so involved in my personal affairs.โ€ Anubis mutters with a small chuckle as he takes the stairs to the basement floor. The room greets them with subtle incense and visions of their homelands framed and painted on the walls, โ€œYour favorite brother has arrived, and even before Ammit has had a chance to bulldoze her way here? Dare I take the overall favorite spot from her?โ€ Anubis calls out in a casual tone to his sister, โ€œItโ€™s good to see you Imentet.โ€

The Little Marjoram is like stepping into an entirely different world and with it comes the witness and renewal of an entirely different man. Anubisโ€™ gestures are soft betwixt her own, woven deep and anchoring to reality despite the flutter in her belly like frantic butterflies. It crests and falls before becoming lodged within her throat to watch him evolve to someone so familiar and comfortable in these graces. Bastetโ€™s glance is stolen over her shoulder for only a second to where a young woman is intermingled with many patrons, but not before she offered the goddess a wink and a smile -- genuine it was. It brought her statement unto a threshold in Bastetโ€™s mind whilst they descended downstairs where the world shifted once more.

Bastet felt a euphoric blessing of coming home, magical tendrils wove themselves among her braids and flitted over her shoulders and went southward upon her spine. Through her arm, down to their connection that only amplified the electricity their bond shared. It was a reminder to earlier, blessed times, of festivals of life and death; renewal and respite, and the sun where it burned and scorched and chased. It reminds her of who she is and who she is with and what once was.

Imentet is a vision and so Bastet takes this moment to bask in the familial affection that bounces from their greetings, at least until her cats trot merrily among their heels, mewling eagerly for attention among those who have gathered. Itโ€™s their eagerness that encourages her own steps and without her former hesitation, Bastetโ€™s face is woven in a smile that brightens endlessly:

โ€œI second that; itโ€™s so good to see you. I regret having been away for so long.โ€ On that notion she retrieves the gifts sheโ€™s prepared. โ€œIโ€™ve brought some things for you, and --โ€ she laughs, watching as Cleopatra sways on her hindquarters, preparing to launch herself into her arms โ€œ -- the cats have missed you terribly it seems.โ€
B A S T E T , G O D D E S S O F P R O T E C T I O N.
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .


[ ๐š‹๐šŠ๐šœ๐š๐šŽ๐š'๐šœ ๐šŠ๐š™๐šŠ๐š›๐š๐š–๐šŽ๐š—๐š โ—† ๐šœ๐š๐š›๐šŽ๐šŽ๐š๐šœ ๐š˜๐š ๐šœ๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š๐š๐š•๐šŽ ].............
โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ. . .โ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆโ–ˆ

So, a Grecian was dead. Yet life still carried on. It was a testament to these intricate fabrics of fate and time, wound and bound as they were, and refusing to surrender and still submitting life unto the crease of cruel irony. That day, children had been brought into the world and somewhere betwixt towers of steel or perhaps lost to decrepit alley ways or drowned channels, a body was waiting to be found. The Conclave had given nothing save for the confession of loss and the unknown; a faceless reaper haunted after the Gods and Bastet had turned her felines to the streets in response -- gather secrets far and wide, look to the crows, she commanded, and follow their beating wings.

That night she had toiled among ivory sheets, twisted them among her calves and wound a fist around lonely cotton as a leftover haze of rose had invaded her mind accompanied by a keen penetration of yearning and desire. Bastet had breathed his name to the stars and was rejoined with silence: a mute shelf of ice there was, a coldness that she knew as he turned away, yet again, for that was their damnation and their game. If only her own thread of fate could be sheared away from the weeping red it was undoubtedly drenched in, tinged in obsidian ends and initial knots of gold. Her evening wasn't made any better, as she worried after her sister's emotional foundation and loomed her soft gaze upon the message that had found way to her inbox. She had read the contents more than once, hesitant to respond, uncertain of her participation and thus, Bastet never answered.

Instead, she had pinged another, perhaps her dearest friend and summarized the events of the gathering the best she could. It did little justice for the dead, but she also knew that Themis would be looped and twined within the arms of her lover [another Nordic lover, Bastet had pointed out once, but who was she to judge] or taken away by obligation to her career. Such was the circumstance for those nearest to her heart. They were duty bound and she a passing fancy. Perhaps such was for the best, for there were no curious eyes prying upon her home or inquiring after her affairs, and her familiars could travel unhindered or pursued. For who would spare a simple stray in the city of Seattle a secondary glance or thought. Cats had fallen from grace, but, in exchange, the many held sway over the hidden natures of the world.

More than once she thought to contact The Morrigan to offer the eyes of her most beloved of companions, however there were a few statements that had struck out to her the most among the Conclave. Instead of offering such services to the Goddess, Bastet deemed it proper to conduct her own search for answers, and the tales proffered were interesting.

oceans returning.
moon light learning; seeking what is lost.
fallen kingdoms and their lost kings.

a soul has signed itself to the devil.
and hearts -- so many -- weep.


Bastet twirled a crow's feather delicately pinched betwixt forefinger and thumb and met the golden glare of Khufu, the Caracal looked upon her expectantly, seemingly awaiting praise. Upon either side of him preened both Hatshepsut, and Cleopatra, their tails swishing carefully in hypnotic tandem.

"You've all done well," she blessed, her voice of sweet whispers. "We can allow others to follow the crows. For now I want you three to keep close to the shadows as I make deliveries." Here, Bastet paused, her fleeting eyes landing once more upon her mobile still and silent like a prophesied specter. She had clients and patients, appointments to keep and worries to soothe of young mothers, and weekends were her only days away to shed away the layers of Amma Ubaste that encumbered her through mortal allegiance. There was no viable reason she couldn't attend to her pantheon, perhaps it was time Bastet to come away from avoidance to simply live.

"We'll make the tea house our last stop," such is a near painful utterance, but she keeps to her promise this time and answers Imentet with her intentions to at least stop by. It's the least she can do, though in her departure she secures a particular bundle of incense for their evening at the tea shop. It's a specially crafted batch intended for all of them and designed with each of them in mind, a brief little flicker of haze and smoke that'll bring memories of home and worship and festivals. Of life, and of death, and wasn't that to be fitting, Bastet considered as her trio of familiars eagerly trotted among her heels.

She made her deliveries on foot, a preference she had claimed many times in comparison to being driven or taking herself to each household or establishment. Such was easier for her companions who fled to the shadows the instance she stepped out from her complex, following their eager bodies till they vanished, but Bastet knew they'd remain close and eager to answer her call. The thought leaves the smallest of graces upon her lips as she teases her fingers through her braids, tossing them among the delicate line of her shoulders.
mentions & interactions:@Icy Hot, @Akayaofthemoon, @Gothelk, @Venus, @fledermaus.
B A S T E T , G O D D E S S O F P R O T E C T I O N.
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .


.......................... [ ๐š๐š‘๐šŽ ๐šž๐š—๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ๐š›๐šœ๐š’๐š๐šข, ๐š‚๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š๐š๐š•๐šŽ ]
He's here.

It's a subtle twinge upon her nape that suffers under a tremor: that small quake of desire that coils upon her throat, burns it to ash, surrenders her tongue to a tool and means of fire that snakes against the bone of her teeth gnashed against a bubbling mewl. He's always so close, and yet always so far; just out of reach from her quivering nails that know the lines of every muscle they have sunk against. Just yonder those doors where many Gods and Goddesses have come upon their summons, she has counted them all amidst the conversation she holds with Hathor muttering that she's okay, just fine, always my dear sister -- and not pining for a certain God of Death just outside those fucking doors. She knows she is inquired to about her familiars, but the rejoinder is snuffed out upon her lips and even with the Grecian poised and standing just right there as a visual token laced with mirth and charm, her piercing gaze has fled to the entry way. There it remains.

Waiting, wanting, yet hating that need that simmers beneath the lace of her soul, Bastet is helpless against the memories that surface upon the turmoil that is her heart clenched in a vice with his signature scrawled in a vicious burn. Uncaring she is of the proffered conversations abound and commotions stirred from loosened stomachs and ruined shoes, the room is a mixture of spiced day-old-sex and rancid remains, and still, her gaze never leaves those doors. When Anubis enters, it's all she sees then and her lungs deflate at the breath she has been holding. He never changes -- neither of them do -- and his mere presence is a faceted jewel of yearning and desire that casts them in both black and gold. Golden eyes beyond gilded lashes brighten, gleaming with a certain knowing that flee away from the broad line of his shoulders and tick down the lines of his profile, raking through layers of clothing and flash back the way they came, sparkling in appetency.

Anubis is like the moon, bright against a backdrop of night, and she is like the waves of the ocean enslaved to his magnetism and though she may flee and crash against banks of sand, he brings her back, stronger and hungrier and needier than before.

Bastet angles her body almost immediately when he comes to her side and there her cheeks color, just so, and lift upon the gentle smile that curls upon her lips. Perhaps the edges droop, softly, in the lingering feelings of sadness at their wayward hearts, but even so, Bastet is happy to see him, it has, indeed, been quite some time.

"I --"

miss you.

Everything is happening in waves and Bastet can barely think betwixt the chaos of emotions plaguing the walls of the room. It's much like a cage that becomes smaller by the trickling seconds that sluggishly crawl by. She almost feels the wills of time inch across her skin like a poisonous worm, unleashed by the Morrigan in such a way that bathed the room in leagues of dread and disbelief. Death is not of her domain, but her golden eyes find obsidian and she allows her stare to linger in mute inquiry -- did he know already? -- and once more, time is a dreaded thing. Her spine coils tight beneath her skin, her instincts birthed upon the wild accusations flung far and wide and the table flipped over in a muted threat. The air is awash in hate and sorrow and pain, and it bathes Bastet's heart in knowing. Memories bloom forth and she recalls wailing mothers and her attempts to subdue them, nails on her shoulders and faces plunged against her chest as they screamed. That accented tragedy colored their voices something reminiscent of desperation and seething rage and it's a sound she could never forget.

Bastet is many steps behind in attempting to calm the situation, but she is no less involved. Each of those that speak and attempt to beseech to Hera's sanity have their faces committed to her piercing stare, especially to one man in particular who speaks eloquently and attempts to bring about reason to not just Queen of the Gods, but to her son and the Morrigan as well. He's nearly accusatory in his deduction and she can only silently agree. Her thoughts are alive in too many questions and she knows there's not enough answers for even one of them. She has come to know the ways of death, but how does a God meet the fate of the reaper. It requires all of her strength to quietly allow Hathor to merge herself into the confrontation, that will to protect her was fierce and vengeful and though Ares pockets his weapon, Bastet can taste his loathing and a yowl kindles away in her chest that boils to a muted growl. Her fingers arch, palms heated and quickly she clasps her gesture onto Anubis, pleading silently that he anchor her spirit as Hathor worked to siphon all of the emotions away from Hera.

She knows the Goddess from her time spent at the office, they work in the same field, and her name is one uttered of respect and admiration -- if only they knew of her deeds -- but she is a mother, and even all the Gods and Goddesses in the room could not take that away from her.

Bastet knows it's too much for her sister to take, her own soul wails at the blistering pool now pillaging Hathor's own heart, and she sees that much when she nearly collapses into her seat. Slowly, achingly slow as Anubis' warmth pools through her fingers and gives her sanity, Bastet comes to kneel before Hathor, her golden eyes flickering in worry and her brows arching at the tears still lingering upon her face.

"You should have allowed me to share some of that burden, sister."

Gentle, as the protector she is, Baset loops both her arms around her shoulders and merely holds her there, steadfast and a pillar of comfort, and though she attempts to pacify her sister, never does her gaze leave the God of Death - not even once.

mentions & interactions:@Icy Hot, @Akayaofthemoon, @smarty0114, @fledermaus.
@Rekker โ€” thank you! ๐Ÿ’•
B A S T E T , G O D D E S S O F P R O T E C T I O N.
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .
๐’‚ ๐’Ž ๐’Ž ๐’‚ ๐’– ๐’ƒ ๐’‚ ๐’” ๐’• ๐’† .


.......................... [ ๐š‹๐šŠ๐šœ๐š๐šŽ๐š'๐šœ ๐šŠ๐š™๐šŠ๐š›๐š๐š–๐šŽ๐š—๐š โ—† ๐š๐š‘๐šŽ ๐šž๐š—๐š’๐šŸ๐šŽ๐š›๐šœ๐š’๐š๐šข, ๐š‚๐šŽ๐šŠ๐š๐š๐š•๐šŽ ]
She remembers the former Conclave as if it were yesterday --

The invasions and declarations of war, the summoning of sons, husbands, and brothers; weeping dames that clutched madly onto others, lost within throes of anguish and loss, but above all, fear. Bastet had held many a council to those bereft of community and courage, the war stole many of those waiting and wanting, and she felt their sorrow and looked after their bastard children left fatherless. She muttered prayers; soothing intonations befitting to her maternal figure, wreathed in the kindness her profession and divinity supplied despite all mortal limitations to her god-hood.

The air tasted of death and even when the sky bloomed to afternoon gold, there remained a lingering wash of ash that pricked upon her felidae intuition, left her caramel skin pebbled and rippling with a premonition of what awaited her at the assembly. He's most likely to be there, a wayward thought supplied, bringing her heart to a flush that rose to her cheeks where a sweater draped gesture rose, cupped against chilled skin and here she breathed soft and slow. Her breath plumed upon the pane of glass casting her reflection back onto her, hazed out by city smog and tainted edges bruised in the smoke. Bastet's apartment was the third floor of a six story complex with an open concept, her wares of perfumes, ointments, balms and paraphernalia of antiques she's collected over the years haphazardly arranged. They're preserved for both beauty and quality, their aesthetics ones of home and a time lost; cats and hawks, serpents and crocodiles, cows and even jackals stationed prettily about her abode. If there's such a canine curiously near her bed, she pays it no mind and instead drapes a throw across pointed ears and a golden wreathed neck more often than not.

She's stalling for time, she realizes, prying herself away from one of many windows overlooking the bustling roads already populated by earlier risers. Bastet often rose betwixt morning and noon, rarely compelled to rest any longer unless accompanied to bed by another, such creatures of flesh they were, and she was no different. Other times her companions woke her, mewling eagerly among her heels and twining tails around her calves, their yowls often ripe and rich with secrets of night and day. Their eyes were her own and their exotic faces glancing onward from shadow her representatives to both Gods and mortals. Each held a pharaoh's name, the three of them; Khufu, Hatshepsut, and Cleopatra -- each also of an exotic breed. Bastet counts them as her beloved servants and familiars and soothes their eager mewls to please with generous affections and sends them away to do her will. She thought of bringing one with her to the Conclave, but she also doubts any of them would appreciate such felines invading their personal barriers and prying into their sometimes secretive natures.

Another time, she promises silently and is answered with barely perceptible nods.

Whilst she dresses, her mind wonders. Death soured the dawn, but the day remained, and with it the eternal inquiry of the Colossus' location permeates her musings. Bastet lingered as a mysterious facet to the collections of Gods', her motivations often a hidden intent and her desires cloaked under melancholy and gentle claims. Only her sister, perhaps, knows of her inner workings, and maybe him, but what does he know other than his own faults and vices. Her mind briskly evades his likeness and instead she ponders upon the others of her pantheon. She hasn't seen them for quite sometime, occupied by her clients and visiting their homes or inviting them indoors on her own hospitality. The tea house is but a distant memory now...

Bastet dresses efficiently, her cosmetics are kohl-lined eyes smudged and spiked lashes, and dabs a delicate perfume upon her nape and wrists. It's something concocted to remind her of home and reminds herself to fulfill her order for The Jade Jaguar. Less the owner come calling upon her again. The woman was a stickler for detail, never quite pleased, beautiful as she is impatient and deadly as many women of these vices are. Bastet procures her mobile not long after, and checks upon her messages briefly to ping one to her sister before exiting her apartment on the sounds of her heels muffled against plush carpeting: "on my way, see you soon. xo".


___________________________________________________________________________


She's not quite late, but neither is she early. Already some have arrived and have occupied themselves, so she thinks their names to herself, counting each and adjusts her long coat and tumbling locks of braids and twisted ends before she finds Hathor already seated. An air of disturbance toils about her, it's ripe and striking, just as she is visually donned in white with splashes of color. Bastet is careful in her approach, languid and unhurried before she elegantly folds herself to be seated next to her, one leg crossed over the other. The room harbors a rather musty odor to which she is thankful for the waft of perfume that greets her nasal with every move she makes, however nothing could be done for the lingering bits of food or mottled carpeting, such as they are. Though, another glance of the conference room produces the thought of if it's just the setting. Lovely...

Bastet sweeps her gaze low before she speaks, plunging her glasses down upon the slope of her nose gracefully before tucking them up high on her crown among the chaos of her tresses. She poses her words carefully, knowing full well the temper the boils beneath bronze skin.

"I'd ask how you slept, but something tells me it was shit. Nightmares again, love?"


-- more character things.

-- character things.


going to throw my interest in here.
not the most confident upon my availability, but, never know, so anyways.

didnโ€™t see a reservation for Bast/Bastet โ€” โ€˜less I missed it โ€” however not sold upon a face claim as of yet.
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