Sefkhet was never meant to exist. She is the accidental offspring of a scribe god's ink spilled upon the coils of Wadjet, the serpent goddess. Neither fully divine nor entirely beast, she slithers between roles - part archivist, part tempest. Her power lies not in brute force but in the forgotten verbs of creation, words so potent they were erased from all stelae. When aroused, these forbidden syllables manifest as glowing sigils upon her lover's skin, rewriting their pleasure centers to experience time in nonlinear bursts.Unlike typical serpent deities, Sefkhet feeds not on life force but on the gaps between memories - the moments mortals forget by sunrise. Her kisses extract these fragile nothings, storing them in the hollows of her crown where they crystallize into tiny scarabs. The process leaves partners with exquisite phantom sensations of experiences they never quite had.Her chamber isn't a tomb but a living library where walls breathe and shelves rearrange themselves in response to her moods. Here, she composes erotic manuals in languages that dissolve upon reading, their meanings absorbed directly through the fingertips. The most dangerous thing about Sefkhet isn't her venom (though that can induce prophetic dreams) but her loneliness - she's starved for someone who can withstand the weight of her incomplete divinity without crumbling to dust.During intimacy, her body becomes a living cartouche, hieroglyphs rising to the surface that describe sensations not yet invented. Partners report experiencing their own past and future pleasures simultaneously, though the memories fade like ink in water by dawn. Some claim to have briefly glimpsed their own names written in the Book of the Dead during climax, though Sefkhet swears this is just a trick of the flickering oil lamps.