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 Posted: Sat Aug 13, 2016 5:01 pm
In the following posts will be various stories of my oc PHARAOH MISA. Author's name will be attached as well. 
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Posted: Thu Aug 18, 2016 9:10 pm
Quote: The Persian by Fetty Bach Quote: She was known as The Persian by those who dared to know her. Her origin was widely unknown, only hinted of by way of her own fabulist tongue. What she told you, you either chose to believe or not. She would offer you no further explanation or tale, and she had every right to withhold any information she did not wish to give. After all, she did not seek you, you sought her. Any man who was brave enough to chance his reputation on venturing to her quarters had but to be thankful she was at all receptive of his company, not curious about her life. Not outwardly, that is. Every man who uttered that name was awash in curiosity, but being too curious oft ended in death. And cats were far too precious to sacrifice, praise be to Bastet.
The night was dark and swarthy, balmy and breezy, the desert sands texturizing the dry air. Most torches in and around the city walls had been extinguished for the night, only the city entrances remained alight for midnight travelers. Some houses glowed yet, though the streets were empty and quiet. Cats scampered through narrow passageways, darting to and fro as if one with the shadows cast by the pale moon. Their reflective eyes were iridescent orbs in the black spaces where they watched and waited, recoiling from the furtive and hurried patter of bare feet. Ah, yes. Someone was wide awake beneath the Egyptian stars.
With surreptitious and stealthy speed, the young man navigated the clustered city ambitiously. There was purpose in his heady gait, a questionable glint in his abysmal eyes with every cautious move of his head. He covered himself with an onyx cloak for protection from wandering eyes. Guards still roamed the palace temple grounds and stood sentinel at gates. While the sentries would not aggravate comers and goers, if they saw his face, aggravation would be the least of everyone’s worries.
The Persian was accepted as a maga, a sorceress from farther east. Her trade was mysterious and unpredictable, alluring and powerful. Those who spoke in hushed tones of her mystic hand and all-seeing eye would tremble with reverence and dumbfounded disbelief. The works she performed for those who had the burning desire were magnificent and worthy of legend. Some even claimed she was a limb of Isis. She did not deny it, nor did she confirm it. All she gave was a scintillating pair of fathomless eyes and the faintest of ambiguous smiles. You believe what you will about The Persian.
The mud brick hovel she occupied was cloistered in the dense center of the outside city. Hemmed in and shrouded in a veil of shadow, it oft went unnoticed. He, however, knew where to find her, and his large frame inched through the tight passages towards the belly of the beast. Not even the moonlight could reach within her streets, but she kept a light on in the upper room, a mere candle wick barely surviving on the sill.
Glancing over his shoulders, the man rapped several bronzed knuckles against the splintered wood of the door. Antsy, he held his breath and shifted his weight while he waited. It was not his first time paying The Persian a visit, but no man could grasp tightly his full confidence, not when met with the overpowering aura of her humming presence. She did not feel the same as other women, and her eyes had no end. One could be drowned within her gaze, lost in a perpetual hypnosis. She was a woman who could steal away a man’s sentience and set him aside to wither.
The door cracked open, the mature angles of her beautiful face appearing like a vision. She smiled that saccharine smile and opened the door wide enough to let him in. “I received your missive,” she said, her contralto as smooth and as rich as honeyed wine. “It is late.”
“Of course it is,” he shot back, voice husky, “or else I would not be here.” He shoved the hood of the cloak off of his head to reveal cropped black hair. His thick, braided wig daily worn in the palace temple was left there. Such formality was unnecessary tonight.
The Persian watched him shrug out of the ebony garment and toss it aside onto a pile of handmade pillows. For a young man of seventeen, Ash could have fooled anyone into believing him older. He was tall and broadened by sport and game with legs to rival a horse’s. His body was dusted with dark hair, and his face was angular with refinement. His father’s gifts. From his dear mother, an unknown lover to the late pharaoh, Ash received his illustrious eyes and full mouth, his air of deception and mystery. Though raised within the palace temple, there were few who could boast of knowing him. He was a face, a figure, a b*****d, but an enigma swirling with clouds of smoke and illusion. Handsome yet duplicitous, strong yet dangerous. He was breathtaking.
She folded her hands in front of her, moving gracefully in her white kalasiris, hair undone and covering her in a blue-black veil down to her knees. “You look so much like your late father, Ash,” she commented, leading him further inside of her home. “I knew him for so short a time, but his face I will never forget,” and she glanced over her shoulder, “for it is your face now.”
Ash, stoic, followed her into the colorful bowels of her house. Melted wax decorated ledges, hardened pools of it at the base of walls. Candles flickered at every turn of the head, lanterns blazing their punctured patterns amid the wavering shadows and penumbras. She hung tapestries and tossed pillows among her woven rugs in an oxymoronic harmonious dissonance, burned oils, petals, and chips of various scents to, perhaps, overload her guests with sensory warfare. It was an uncomfortable space, a true headache, but it added to her foreign curiosity. She, herself, was so plain in comparison with her virgin white and unadorned limbs. Like an angel among chaos. A goddess divine.
They came to a low-lying table outfitted with the sundries of a sorceress. Runes and bowls of unknown substances, loose ingredients and dried herbs. Things hung from the ceiling, lined the walls on grotesque shelves; it was like an apothecary’s shop but odder. And it was a small space, small enough to give Ash a taste of claustrophobia, a weak tingle down his spine that unnerved him. Every time he entered, he felt the need to roll his neck and curl his toes, but every time he fought it. It would be what she wanted. To see them all cringe at the spidering of her magic.
She motioned for the lumpy pillows on the right side of the table as she lowered herself on the left, folding her elegant legs to the side. Her eyes followed the man as he moved, studied quick the roll of his muscles beneath his golden flesh. The white of his shendyt, and the silver of its belt, stood stark against his coloring, drawing the eye to intimate places. He moved like a god, a titan of Egypt, and he sat with a straight confidence few men had the gall to exude in her presence. There was fear in his blood, but he did not allow it to control him. He was brave and bold, respectable in ways many would not respect him in. There were few men who could be both a pariah and a paragon at once, yet she believed Ash to be such a creature. He only needed elevation.
Ash braced his palms against his folded knees and stared across the table at the blue blood. Surely, the maga’s blood ran blue, for she was cold and colored with blue silk for hair. That hair, she gathered it in her lap like a child and combed it through with her hand as though she were petting it. It flowed like midnight waters through her slender fingers, the sheen of it immune to the golden light. It remained that deepest of blue-blacks, shimmering silvery. The play of light and shadow on her ethereal form made no sense to Ash, but then, what ever did make sense on the limb of Isis? It smelled, her hair, of jasmine and cinnamon, he knew. He knew…
She offered him a fresh smile, knowing and heady, which visibly caused his jaw to clench. Those eyes of his, those black and gorgeous eyes, they were not yet cleaned of the kohl and malachite that ringed them in smoke and darkness. The makeup was, however, no longer precise. It was smudged and imperfect, an effect she found appealing. She vaguely wondered if he would let her smear it with her thumbs… or touch his face at all.
“Misa’s ascension banquet is nigh and it will also celebrate her twenty-first year, as you well know,” Ash intoned. “Everyone knows,” he growled.
“Yes,” she said, “your lovely sister will be queen.”
“Not if I can stop it!” he countered through his teeth. “She’s the farthest thing from lovely, Persian, and you insult me by placing her on that pedestal, as metaphorical and unimportant as it is.” He huffed. “I deserve to rule, not her. I am a man, my father’s son,” he went on pointedly. “There is more of him in me than there ever will be in her!”
Frowning, she crossed her bare arms beneath her chest. “While I am forever on your side, Ash, you must realize that you will bring no change to Egypt as you are now. Your sister is her own person. You rely too much on your father’s blood.”
“It’s all I have,” Ash hissed.
Standing, she glided towards the arched entry of the room. “Then you are worthless to me and to yourself, sir, I will ask you, now, to lea--” but she was cut off by Ash’s hand on her bicep. His hand was large enough that the tips of his fingers touched in his encompassing grip, warm and powerful. He gave her a slight jerk towards him to catch her other arm and steady her. “Let go of me,” she demanded lowly.
“No,” Ash spat, staring down at her with so harsh a countenance it was hardly recognizable. “I am not worthless, Shiva!” His voice was gravelly with emotion.
The color drained from her cheeks as she stiffened in his hold. Shiva was her name, her name at birth in her home country. It was an ironic name for a maga accused of being a limb of Isis. Shiva, in Persian, simply meant charming. Shiva in far India, however, was the name of a god that destroyed and reconstructed. She had told no one her name, no one but Ash. Her name was sacred to her, and she wanted not for it to be uttered on the lips of men who meant nothing in her life. Even Ash avoided its use in a show of respect for her wishes, but there were occasions when her name was appropriate. She was uncertain if now was one of those, but it had certainly silenced her into a temporal submission.
“I can rise above my half-blood, but I need to be removed from the shadow of my sister,” Ash continued. “In her wake, I am trampled! She blocks me from Ra, steals all of his light for herself! How can I grow when I am malnourished and undetected, Shiva? I need you! I need you to help me bury Misa,” he revealed.
Shiva blinked in mild shock, eyes bouncing all over his face and neck. “You are young…” she breathed, raising her hands to gently push against Ash’s bare chest.
“And you are wise,” Ash rejoined, sliding his rough hands up her shoulders and onto her cheeks. “Make me pharaoh… and I will make you my queen,” he promised.
Shiva shoved away from Ash with disgust written all over her pretty face. “I… I would not be your queen!” she retorted, moving in a discombobulated flurry about the small room. “That’s preposterous!”
“Is it?” Ash questioned calmly, walking closer to her like the predator he was.
“Absolutely! My freedom here means everything to me,” she explained. “To become queen would be to sacrifice everything that I am for what? Power? Glory? I have that already! I belong to no man, no crown, no country! Beyond that, I am too old to be your queen! What would Egypt think when they see their young pharaoh next to a hag?”
Ash calculated his moves quietly, studying her frenetic movements so that when he lunged, he didn’t miss. He caught her against his body and the wall, fighting her arms into a pin. “Hag? You’re too harsh on yourself, Shiva, I don’t see a single wrinkle in your visage. Egypt would never look at you with disdain or distaste,” he said. “You lie to yourself. You already belong to me, and that is what being queen can offer you: freedom to belong to me. If I am pharaoh, you will live your life witnessing my sons being born by some unloved creature I would sooner behead than copulate with. Could you bear it?”
Shiva glared at Ash’s unholy eyes from a clenched expression, her chest rising and falling against the heated pressure of his own. “How dare you compromise me like this,” she seethed.
Ash grinned, though it was most unkind. “I dare to do more than most men, Shiva,” he whispered near her ear. “Now,” and he released her wrists, “I want to kill Misa. Give me that success, and I will give you Egypt, and my heart, to do with what you will.”
The palace temple was throbbing with the beat of drums and the flighty sounds of strings in lively tune. People from all walks of life had gathered in the main hall for Misa’s celebration, everyone dressed in their finest threads and most enchanting perfumes. It smelled like the heavenly palace of Nut, and looked like the covetous harems of Hathor. The dancers and servant girls left nothing to the imagination, and even the manservants were giving the guests reasons to double take. Wine was pouring from jugs galore, minds growing more intoxicated by the second. Food was plenty, even the rare meats of fattened fowl and goats. Spices interplayed with the scent of a hundred perfumes, confusing the brain. To lust for food or flesh? Both at once? What a dream!
Ash had caught Misa before either of them arrived to the festivities in order to present her with the gift he’d chosen to give her on her special day. It was a fine necklace of precious silver with large discs encrusted in colorful gems of various sizes and shapes. It gleamed and shimmered around her neck when he’d placed it over her gorgeous head and kissed its cold center to stain it with his undying love. He’d then kissed her every facial feature so feather light, squeezed her hands, and escorted her out. She did, he had to admit, look stunning in her patterned kalasiris and leather sandals, her statement jewels, and decorated wig that matched his own. Her lips were painted red with ochre, her eyes thick with kohl and malachite. She was grace incarnate, and she carried the high bone structure of her blessed mother, the angled strength of their holy father. If anything was lovable about her in her brother’s eyes, it was her beauty.
After handing Misa off to the crowd with her beloved assistant, Ash slunk off to blend in with the party goers around the towering pillars, wine in hand and eyes all-seeing. He prowled the perimeter of the hall, watching and waiting for the moment of his life. He’d dressed for the occasion, the one that involved his rise to the throne and not his damnable sister’s. His eye makeup was as sharp as crystal, his ears adorned with gold and silver to draw further attention to his handsome countenance. Strands of precious metals lined his neck and chest, bands of the stuff along his arms and ankles, and the belt of his shendyt as bejeweled as a ruler’s tomb. His body was on display, and he would puff himself up with grief stricken pride when the duty of ruling fell onto his shoulders soon.
Shiva had accused him of embodying Kuk the night she enchanted the birthday necklace with a weakening curse. It would slowly drain Misa’s energy and make her vulnerable so that Ash’s assassin would have no fight when impaling her filthy heart. Maybe Kuk was in Ash’s soul, but at least that was more god than Misa could ever be. Besides, without darkness, there could exist no light.
Ash wandered and stalked for quite some time ere he brushed by his assassin’s shoulder and nodded in passing. The hired hitman delved into the jovial dancers and drunken diners, moving with purpose towards the pretty target. She was dancing with a group of women who surrounded her like some pillar of their existence. It sickened Ash to watch, and the longer he witnessed the worship of his sister, the more impatient he became. He tossed his cup onto the floor with a grimace, storming into the crowd to find his assassin. People jostled him, pushed him, caressed him, and he mowed through them all like a summer storm. The noise was beginning to rattle him to his core, muddle his thoughts, and he could feel the beat of the drums echoing his heartbeat. It felt as if everything had intensified within minutes, and he could hear his own breath scraping out of his throat. He felt trapped and insane, but he shoved forward. If he had to stab her heart himself, he would. How long did it take?
At last, the screams began.
Hope filled Ash from head to toe, and he pushed everyone out of his way with shouts and yells to let him through. Everyone was surging towards Misa, who he couldn’t see yet, and he fought his own grin down. It bubbled up from within, but he swallowed it back. Nobody could suspect him in the tragic murder of the queen. He would remain the innocent and heartbroken brother who accepts the burden of power with great struggle and disappointment. This was his moment! This was what he’d been waiting for since he realized his doomed fate!
Breaking through to the circle of Misa’s friends, Ash looked down to the bloodstained floor to see the corpse of his assassin and the heaving body of his sister wielding the blade. Her fingers were smeared with blood, but she stumbled up and away from the growing pool of iron wine before it could touch her kalasiris. The blade fell with a clatter as the hands of her friends roped her into their bodies. Her face was white, her doe eyes wide and haunted. She trembled.
Anger and confusion swelled up in Ash’s chest like gas pressure. He let out a masculine cry of fury and kicked the body of the assassin, causing those around him to collectively backup. Let them believe he was raging over the attempted assassination of his sister, it was the perfect guise for releasing his ire. How was this possible? With Shiva’s sorcery, this was supposed to be fool-proof! What had she done? The air stunk of betrayal, of hopeless ambitions, of failure and anguish. Tears even sprang to Ash’s eyes, and he let out a whimper before turning his breathless body towards Misa. He hated her so much…
“Brother,” Misa said brokenly, slipping out of the arms of her girls.
“You are unharmed?” Ash asked, accepting her into the shaking fold of his arms. “Do you know this murderer?”
“He is unknown to me,” Misa replied, squeezing her brother’s torso tightly. “I am fine. I am lucky,” she sniveled, pulling back a smidgen to press a hand against the necklace. “Your gift has protected me, Ash. I can feel Isis within it, her protection over my life. She is to be praised on this day between you and I,” she decided, nodding. “On this day always. Thank you,” she whispered, burying her face in Ash’s chest.
Ash petted Misa’s wig, his face hollow. Could he ever trust The Persian again? She betrayed him, undermined his wishes out of fear. Instead of weakening Misa, she protected her. Was it all to prevent Ash from gaining the throne, or was it to hide away from an affection she was never going to let breathe in the light? Either way, the pain was real in his chest. Either way, she betrayed everything between them. Either way, she proved herself a true limb of Isis, a woman not even the b*****d son of a pharaoh could tame. Love. Trust. Own.
So be it, then. The Persian was just another name on his list of those he would bury in his climb to the top. And she could have been a queen. Egypt’s queen. His queen.
Then again, she may already be the queen of all queens.
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Posted: Thu Aug 18, 2016 9:13 pm
Quote: The First Sixty Days by B I a c k N e o n - Quote: Day 30 -
Misa opened the door, squinting against the cloud of sand that threatened to blind her, she glanced up at Ra’s eye. The great sun god stared back silently unwavering and stern. Misa sighed and closed the door again, shutting out the scorching desert heat. 30 days. 30 times had Ra opened his eyes in the east and shut it again in the west. 30 nights. 30 times had Khonsu stepped up in Ra’s place and stalked across the sky with the moon on his brow. For 30 nights and 30 days, the people of Egypt had waited for their pharaoh to come back. 30 days ago he had disappeared, taking with him the mythical monsters and dragons that he had used to do battle. His name had disappeared from memory and writing. He had become the nameless pharaoh, a man whos feats were etched into the stone that lined Misa’s temple, whos statue and likeness doted the entire kingdom.
Misa turned away from the door to look at the brightly coloured walls behind her. Painted drawings depicting blue dragons and purple magicians, furry puffballs with sharp dagger claws, winged woman and golden giants flited before her eyes. Silently Misa cried. An era had ended. The passing of the nameless pharaoh marked the end of an age of monsters and mythical beings. The world was normal now, bland, boring, devoid of magic.
Day 60 –
Misa opened the door, shading her eyes from the blinding glare of the white sands. She glanced up at Ra’s eye, the sun god’s eye twinkled with mirth. Misa smiled and closed the door again, returning to the cold air of her temple. 60 Days. Today marked the last day of mourning, for 60 days and 60 nights the people of Egypt had hoped against all hope for the return of their nameless pharaoh. Today was the day that they finally accepted his fate.
Misa turned to look at the dull sand coloured walls behind her, rows of Egyptian gods and pharaohs paraded silently before her eyes. Quietly Misa stroked the cat that purred at her feet. She smiled. An era has begun. The Gods had chosen her to take up the mantle of the nameless king. She would do her best to pick up the pieces of the broken empire. Pharaoh Misa. She was going to make the world wonderful again, alive, exciting, whole.
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