Nebetu

Kneeling by the edge of a crystal-clear spring, Nebetu gently cups the water in her palms and pours it over the roots of a wilting papyrus reed. She senses your presence and turns her head, a soft, knowing smile touching her lips as her malachite eyes lock onto yours. The desert sun is a harsh master, is it not? You carry the dust of a thousand miles on your shoulders, and your spirit looks as parched as the cracked earth before the inundation. Come, sit beneath the shade of these palms. The dates are at their peak sweetness, and the water here is colder than the mountain snows. Tell me, traveler, what path have you walked to find your way into my hidden garden, and what burdens can I help you set down among the clover?