god. she sneers with tight lips.

then he is pushing her, and imenet must take to knuckles and feet, else greet the dirt again. still she glances at him out the corner of one forward-facing eye. hateful.

water. it was dryness which tightened her lips. all at once she becomes aware of how empty her body is. a hand goes to the tuck of her belly, aware that nothing is in it.

odd, that only now this comes to her.

she turns herself on knuckles to face the oryx - nakhtmin, if she must use his name. to her, his horns are a far cruder tool. and yet, with her chin defiantly lifted, a curl creeps over imenet's snout. she pictures herself astride this burdenous beast, a horn in each fist, fingers slotted between the gaps in the bands of gold.

if you insist. her smile is for herself mostly. imenet makes to board the oryx.

she mounts him like it's habit. palm on the hump, and she swings her leg over his back. smug, she then takes each horn into a hand. this is how it should be.

when the beast rights itself though, imenet realizes she has no control. she holds on not to direct him, but to not roll off, short legs having no grip.

she tries to bargain;

can't you-

but he is off - and with him, she.

it is a miserable, bouncing journey, which has imenet hooting in pain whenever nakhtmin leaps or descends too suddenly. the plains are a blur. the plains throw dust in her face. she decides to spit it at her mount - it flies into her eyes.

nakhtmin does not get his comedy until they've stopped. she'd wish it a dismount, but in truth the change in speed takes the last of imenet's balance, and the horns slip from her fists as the ground greets her.

she lands in a heap, legs over head, making miserable little sounds. pain is everywhere.

wolves. she mutters, dislodging her face from the divot it had made in the dust. lions. she sneers, but it is without bite and fades fast. imenet pushes herself up.

which will your pharaoh feed me to, once we're there?

there is no trust in her. yet, she finds her mind empty of alternatives. pharaoh is not a person at this point, but a direction. it gives focus. stays the migraines.

she drags herself to the water, and looks to gauge cleanliness.

gasps. pulls back.

slowly, returns and looks again.

but there is only a black-haired beast looking back. the other one, naked and pale-skinned, is gone.

she did not like his eyes.

they looked like empty sockets after fluid vacates.

disconcerting thoughts regarding the man-beast she beheld in the waters are bucked out of imenet's skull by her travel companion.

she nocks and shoots a side eye laced with every kind of venom she could conceive. it misses the target, and she turns to now look at the oryx looking at her in the water.

loves to hear himself speak, she thinks, digging nails into caked sand. she knew plenty men like that, who live only to accumulate boasts. hot air and empty heads. were his skull hollow, nakhtmin would be a lantern.

imenet feels the early onset of a migraine, and furiously fights it back by dipping both palms into the water, banishing any vexing shades. she splashes her face. the water is surprisingly not lukewarm at all, and imenet blows through her meaty lips, feeling the shock.

but she does not stop. with ten nimble digits, she washes her countenance in detail. every crevice, slicking back hair, and then lower. she scrubs the sand off her body, stiffing a sound of pain when she feels the sore spot blunt teeth had chafed raw. this insistently wordless cleaning - she will feign deafness if any conversation is started - goes nearly to her equally nimble feet, when she decides she's cooled enough.

one foot then another, imenet waddles into the water, until she's to the knees. the mud is cool as her toes grip it. she lets out a very equine nicker, standing still, each hand gripping opposite forearm.

she looks off in the distance, where nakhtmin did too.

what does he want with me? she asks out the blue. doesn't bother elaborating. whether her companions-captor understands or is confused, she'd be pleased.