Anubis
The dirt of a mortal mountain did not require water to remove.
I stood in the vast, marble-tiled bathroom of my suite, the air cool and silent around me. As a god of the Duat, I possessed the divine authority to snap my long fingers and purge my skin in a single instant, dissolving every grain of limestone dust, every stain of dried blood, and every trace of sweat into nothingness. Magic was swift. Magic was effortless.
Yet I reached out with a trembling hand and turned the heavy brass handles of the shower, letting hot water flood the glass enclosure until thick, white steam billowed into the dark room.
There was something profoundly calming about the physical act of washing. The slow, rhythmic scrubbing of soap against flesh grounded my ancient, restless spirit in a way divine light never could. It was a ritual of the embalming house—a reminder of mortal fragility, of water, natron, and linen.
