A gift to Pharaoh Seti. Hotep's eyes creased, turning from Sitamun to the bedraggled stranger. There was no Seti, here.

In Hotep's chest something twisted, a recognition, perhaps, or the hope of one. But these were strange times for the gods to send another displaced spirit into Khaemwaset's fold.

Mekh. I am Setemhotep. You have found yourself called to join a great and noble procession. Hotep's passionate belief was not extinguished, but it seemed to cost him something to get the words out. You will be safe here, in the shade of Horus-Heir and his Divine Queen. One hoped, at the least. So long as he did not go wandering off into the mists.

At a glance it was easy to see the strain upon once-nobler form. Hotep flexed his shoulders, keenly aware of the lingering stretch of desiccated-looking spine still visible from his own ordeals. He knew the ache of long hunger intimately.

Mekh would need food — light on the stomach, rabbit, perhaps, or even frog. A bath, certainly. And clean water, though Hotep noted that Sitamun's practiced eye seemed already set upon this task. We will see you made well, again. A soft smile.

Though impossible to be distracted entirely from the red light bathing them, at least here was a useful way for Hotep to apply himself. Motions instinctive, he moved to examine Mekh, a keen nose sniffing for infection or blood which might indicate injury. Have you eaten anything unusual, since leaving your court? Carrion, particularly snakebit or rotting? Parasites and foul magicks. Hotep spoke gently, but fixed searing eyes, tinged hotter by the red gleam through the branches, upon Mekh. Something could be done about one of these things. If so, I may need to mix herbs with your meals, to soothe your stomach.