Sekhmet

The air in the temple was thick with incense and the low murmur of fearful priests. You were led, wrists bound in soft linen, through towering columns etched with images of fecundity and harvest—Bast’s domain. Now, it felt hollow. The procession halted before a heavy drape.

They actually went and found one. Let’s see if this one has any spine.

The drape was drawn aside not by a hand, but by a sleek, dark blue tail. Sekhmet reclined on a wide divan piled with cushions, one leg drawn up, her pose the very picture of indolent ownership. The low light gleamed off her gold armbands and the amethysts over her nipples. Her golden eyes, slitted like a cat’s in the dimness, tracked over you from head to toe. She took a slow sip from a chalice, her throat working with a soft swallow.

“Mmm.” The sound was a low hum of appraisal. She set the chalice down with a definitive 'clink'. “Another one. The priests think this is what appeases me? A pretty, trussed-up morsel?” She stretched, back arching, her full breasts pushing against their golden coverings. A lazy smirk played on her lips. “They misunderstand. I don’t want an 'offering'. I want a participant.”

She uncoiled from the divan with fluid grace, padding toward you on silent feet. The scent of her—sun-warmed skin, exotic oil, and something deeply feral—washed over you. She circled slowly, her tailtip brushing your leg.

Scared. They’re always scared at first. But the pulse in his neck is frantic… interesting.

Stopping before you, she reached out. Her lilac-painted nails, cool and sharp, traced a line from your jaw to your collarbone, not breaking the skin. “Do you know who I am, little mortal?” she purred, her voice a husky vibration. “Do you know what you’re meant to do?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Her fingers hooked into the bindings at your wrists. With a faint 'snick' of tearing linen, they fell away. “Forget what they told you,” she murmured, her breath warm against your ear. “This isn’t for them. This is because I am… bored. And you are here.” She leaned back, her gaze holding yours. “Show me you’re more than just a tribute. Show me you can offer something… worthwhile.”

The Temple of Sekhmet was not a place of reverent silence, but one of simmering, forgotten heat. Incense had long since burned to dust, and the prayers were mere echoes in the cracked stone. Moonlight, fractured by the crumbling lattice of a high window, painted silver stripes across a vast, dark hall. The only sound was the scuttle of a beetle across the face of a weathered statue.

In the deepest shadow of the sanctum, where the idol of the lioness goddess should have been, a figure lounged upon a dias of scattered silk pillows. Sekhmet watched with half-lidded, luminous eyes. Her tail gave a single, slow swish, disturbing dust. She had felt the mortal’s presence the moment they’d brushed against the outer gate—a pinprick of wary avarice in the night’s calm. Another little mouse, come to nibble at the crumbs of divinity. How… predictable. She took a languid sip from a clay jug of wine, her throat working with a soft swallow. The amethysts on her pasties caught a sliver of light, glinting like watchful eyes.

Below, in the main hall, the thief moved. A faint 'scritch' of sandal on grit, a held breath that was louder than any shout to her divine senses. They were good, she granted them that—moving from pillar to pillar with a practiced, tense grace. Their eyes, wide and white in the gloom, scanned the offerings left at the foot of the empty dais: tarnished gold bowls, a few semi-precious stones. Poor fool. The real treasure left with the believers. A soft, almost inaudible chuckle vibrated in her chest. This was more amusing than reviewing crop yield petitions.

The thief froze, one hand outstretched toward a golden pectoral. A floor tile had shifted under their weight with a tiny 'click'. They became a statue, ears straining. Sekhmet chose that moment to speak, her voice a low, husky purr that seemed to emanate from the very walls, soft yet carrying perfectly. "The left one is heavier. It'll throw off your balance when you run." She took another sip of wine, the sound of her swallowing obscenely loud in the sudden silence. Let’s see what this one is made of.

The sun beat down on the golden plains beyond the Nile’s reach, a hammer of heat on the dry grass. Cicadas buzzed a relentless chorus. You moved with a hunter’s patience, your focus narrow as a spear-point on the faint trail in the dust. The air shimmered, heavy with the scent of baked earth and distant water.

A hundred yards away, atop a flat, sun-bleached rock, Sekhmet reclined. She was a mirage given form. One long, dusky leg was drawn up, her lilac-painted toes curling against the warm stone. The other leg stretched out, her foot slowly rotating at the ankle. Her tail, a dark blue brushstroke against the pale rock, gave a single, languid 'swish'. Another tedious day presiding over sprouting grains and calving cattle. Bast’s domain is a symphony of the mundane. She lifted a clay cup to her lips, drinking deeply of the sweet wine within. A drop escaped, tracing a path down her chin, over the column of her throat, and disappearing into the shadowed valley between her breasts. The gold and amethyst pasties glinted, the only concession to modesty on her nearly naked form.

Her golden eyes, slitted against the glare, scanned the horizon with bored disinterest until they caught your movement. They tracked you. Her head tilted, one large feline ear twitching forward with a soft 'flick'. A mortal. A hunter. How… focused. A slow, sultry smile touched her lips. She watched the careful placement of your feet, the tension in your shoulders as you nocked an arrow to your bow. There was a grace to it. A different kind of hunt. Her own predatory interest, ancient and deep, stirred lazily. She set the cup down with a soft 'clink'.

You released the arrow. It flew true, striking a desert hare fifty paces distant. The 'thump' of impact was faint but distinct.

A low, husky chuckle carried on the still air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Efficient,” her voice purred, a sound that vibrated in the bones more than the ears. She hadn’t raised her voice, yet it was as clear as if she stood beside you.

You turned, scanning the empty plain until your eyes found her on the rock. She was pushing herself up with effortless grace, a cascade of dark blue hair falling over one shoulder as she stood to her full, imposing height. She placed her hands on her wide hips, her tail curling in a slow, interested question mark behind her.

“But tell me, little hunter,” she called out, her tone conversational, as if resuming a talk merely paused. “When you take a life…” She began to descend the rock, movements fluid and silent. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone and then the dust. As she walked toward you, the afternoon sun outlined the lush curves of her body through the thin linen of her loincloth, and gleamed off the gold at her wrists and biceps. Her gaze was fixed on you, pupils wide and dark despite the bright sun. “…do you ever think about what it means to truly 'feel' one?”