———— actually, it has a magical power that brings all of the exhibits to life. ❞ dash-only. born 2017, reborn 2019.
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@mdjy
———— actually, it has a magical power that brings all of the exhibits to life. ❞ dash-only. born 2017, reborn 2019.

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/
should we kill him? asked the medjay at his side. no, ardeth murmured, the desert will kill him. a collection of imagery for for a/rdeth b/ay.
black robes, midnight’s color without stars, ruffles ‘bout his legs as he steps ‘cross the floor, like bird’s feathers in the wind. boots click quietly ‘gainst. he does not like the sound! he who is warrior prefers a silent stride. ‘ vincent. ’ though words entomb steady, low syllables, uneasy is he, sight ‘neath somewhat furrowed brow glancing o’er illusionist. ‘ you were contacted a few days ago by the curator for the egyptian museum. ’ sun-kissed features reveal not the circumspect that paints what he thinks, giving only tattooed word ‘pon cheeks.
‘ it is about --------- ’ brief flicker o’er his face as dark eyes like honey burnt glance, the intent of the searcher. he sees not what he seeks. ‘ ... an artifact from your performances. ’ wrought is the stony visage he bears as it hardens.
@fcknexprt.

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he’s not used to this. & by that he means a touch without malice, hands that gentle rouse him from sleep. ardeth wakes before him, as usual, & the movement causes him to JOLT awake by force of habit. he’s hushed, soothed into laying back down & going back to sleep for the time being. dipping in & out of consciousness, he finds himself actually able to REST when ardeth is about; that nervousness that so commonly cripples him no longer a plague upon his head. it’s peaceful. at least, for the time being.
but those hands gentle pull him to sit up, awakening him for the day. they kiss, & beni’s hands find themselves coming to rest upon ardeth’s shoulders, leaning forward a bit to deepen their kiss, if only slightly. ardeth withdraws & there’s a soft whine of disappointment from the smaller man. but he accepts it as such, leaning to rest his body against the other man’s. fingers wind themselves in ardeth’s dark curls, beni letting out a soft exhale as he tries to shake the sleep from his body.
/ @mdjy
we are part of an ancient secret society, said the curator, for over three-thousand years, we have guarded then-neteru ...
the tale of the curse of imhotep was first transcribed upon a papyrus scroll by a priest and given to the medjay that had been chosen by horus. as only scribes and priests could read and write the pictures of the egyptian language, the priest instructed the guard on how to know and recite the words to the other medjay leaders and the medjay’s children, continuing on down the line of descendants. by the coming into adulthood at age fourteen, a young medjay was expected to know the tale by heart. the papyrus scroll disappeared long ago, but the story lived on, as did many of the phrases and gestures of the medjay’s culture.
be strong, saith my heart; i am a soldier; i have seen worse sights than this.
homer, the odyssey
valianthunts.
The other’s words did not fail to reach the hunter’s ears. But once a man like himself was riled— well there was little to be said that would sway him differently. Not to mention Giles was FAR from his element here. Gaze, milky and blue, wild as a FIRE met with the stranger’s. As did his sights flicker to the hand on the man’s bade. Knife in hand held tight by paled knuckles LOWERED finally. Chapped lips curled, vexed, as he scoffed and backed away. ‘’Tell that to the bastard with the smart mouth.’’
‘ if he has a smart mouth --------- perhaps it would do you well to be smarter. ’ sights set ‘pon the other’s knife, a heedful flicker of his gaze upwards to the man’s face. circumspect he, unwilling to abide the shedding of viscera ‘pon this people-filled place. obsidian brows knot, and he waits like a bird waits perched ‘pon limb. evening eyes meet the man’s blue-as-day. when the other backs away, his posture straightens, disapproval painting firm features. ‘ there is a chance i could help you with what you seek. ’ obscure meaning, as if sphinx-spoken, double-edged. quiet exhale, sand-worn hand falling from hilt. he should be going back, but the appearance of a foreigner boded ill.
someone: not all men me: ur right. ardeth bay would never do this to me

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dusky eyes, a color made from dates’ pigment, enshrines the sights of the red land, black land. he has seen the lion with the man’s head, paws pinned ‘neath the burnt sands. boots have strode o’er it with heavy legs. lo, above it all, the pyramids! desert-midnight cloth bound ‘round a head that has looked up to their points, an staircase of jutting stones that weep pebbles and chip in mourning of the white limestone that once dressed their sides. his, a gloaming gaze as the hems of his fabric darkened with damp as it drunk in the river, looked o’er the nile while atum, sun of the evening, sun of the setting, spread lapis lazuli ‘cross sparkling waters splashing pearls ‘gainst a wine-sky shore. the temples and resting places of pharaohs past, structures with bones that reach above the devouring shadow he casts ‘pon them, bathed their shape into him! empty columns that house dusty statues and painted figures caught ‘pon walls make his skin. his is a heart that beats the blue of egypt. it gives him flight ‘cross the lands! though to the spoken place, he has not been, nor does he understand.
‘ i have been to many faraway places on my journeys. ’ ambiguous are the words that come out of ruddy mouth, in passing as wind through reeds. a lips’ corner tugs upwards at the other. pursed a little, it’s hidden ‘neath his obsidian beard. head cants side-wards, and eyes glance o’er the angel’s face. the dark curls that adorn his brown neck like black clouds are kept back behind ears by tagelmust, though a wisp finds its way to his tattooed cheek as he lifts robed arm and gestures t’wards the other’s moon-pale clothes. fingers reach and tuck behind the folded front of the suit-jacket, thumbing the cloth before arm falls away. he knows little of what lay beyond egypt! past the dunes that stretched out like yellow waves. he names it his only dwelling place. ‘ is this what they wear there? ’ the sound of his voice holds quieted mirth.
@angelomens.
drawn from belt comes scimitar, a shimmering sheen ‘pon the blade’s flat ‘gainst dark robes, like the sun shining silver streaks ‘pon water. held by sand-toughened hand in firm grip, hilt graced by spread fingers. blade’s tip points downward, a painting of show rather than the intent of he, kemet’s warrior. dubiety bears its weight ‘pon the will of his limbs, corners of darkened eyes tightening. midnight strands, like the oil within a doused lamp, curl ‘bout his face.
‘ take in a breath --------- and think on your next action. ’ a command, spoken steady as a temple’s pillars. he is the wings, and it is a flight ordained by the centuries, horus called, but within him is a flutter. the scimitar raises not.
@switcblade.
we have come to serve pharaoh, the medjay say, and ipuwer writes, the medjay are pleased with egypt.
the term “medjay”, throughout egypt’s many thousands of years of ancient history, blossomed to signify the pharaoh’s blessed guardians after they earned a valiant military reputation while joining egyptian troops in battle. though the term was originally used to denote eastern desert nomads, by 1650 B.C.E., the medjay were established to be the force of law in egypt, separate from the rest of the hierarchy.
(i said something: words the wind carried away)
octavio paz, from ‘happiness in herat’, a tale of two gardens (via soracities)

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‘ live today, fight tomorrow. ’
the low words are honey-heavy, entombed within bearded mouth and made to sound in dichotomy. two sides of the tipping scale! balanced with the calm he speaks is a cautioning that keeps pads of his fingers pressing tightly ‘round the hilt of warrior’s blade. other hand raises, beckoning for a halt, with pursed lips and jaw drawn tight. ‘ blood does not need to be shed. ’
@valianthunts.
litham, color of a star-less night, drawn o’er mouth and nose lets little of face be seen. it makes him like the faded stone which sun’s rays have taken color from, for night-cloth obscures physiognomy. he remains hidden 'neath the folds! eyes pierce. words come low from muffling fabric as he steps forward, stance tall. he is the last statue standing ‘round ruins.
‘ set your heart upon hearing my words --------- leave this place. ’
@vaempir.