"Mama taught me to respect the grey and elderly." a third passenger, with multi-colored hair, on the roof spoke in an even tone. "Sekhmet, please apologize."
She sat cross-legged near the rear edge of the roof, her expression almost empty of emotion.
The various colors in her hair shifted slightly when the breeze caught them.
"My name is Agora, and I am but eighty-four years old. Still far from what you lads label me as." I let the words out on a long breath and kept the reins steady in my hands.
[Author's Note: Agora being 80 is akin to a regular human being 60-ish or so]
The two Scarab Boros moved at their usual unhurried pace, broad padded paws finding easy purchase on the packed earth.
The path beneath us was smooth and well-kept, a pale ribbon of packed dirt and worn stone that had been rolled over by wagons and walked by travelers for longer than most living people could remember.
