Lion Head Mesa [sc] Diamonds Under my Eyes

All welcome but maybe @Legend or @Eset? <3

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My heart could be burnin', but you won't see it on my face
Watch me dance, dance the night away
I'll still keep the party runnin', not one hair out of place

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Machi observed as the procession dissolved into dancing couples and the resonance of jovial laughter filled the air. He scanned the crowd, searching for Senmut amidst the throng, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the red man disappearing with a woman, prompting a bemused reflection on his own misjudgment. Ah well, he thought with a nonchalant shrug, so long as he enjoys himself, I suppose.

Surveying the gathering for any familiar faces, Machi found none immediately interesting enough to engage in conversation. Instead, he contented himself with finding a comfortable vantage point from which to observe the festivities, adopting the aloof demeanor of a feline perched high above, watching the revelers below with a sense of detached interest.

hope u don't mind me snagging now that i can HEHEHEHE

izaiah's first moon in akashingo brought quite the procession.
he'd been on the sidelines as the event slowly swelled with song and sweat. he people-watched from a corner, popping sour berries into his mouth in order to keep his heart from bursting from his chest. he felt well and truly alien, hearing the names of these desert-gods he did not know; desert-gods that were not his!
it was the other wallflower which caught his attention, scoping out the marble-carved face through the sea of drunken bodies. he'd certainly never seen him around before.
you not a fan of crowds either? the boy asks, scanning the sun-dappled eyes for unspoken thoughts. he feels as though he should be intimidated. or all the... y'know... lust.

Sorry for the long wait! I'll keep this one prioritized since it's older <3

Machiavelli greeted the newcomer with a subtle shift of his eyes and the flick of an umber ear, his tail curling and snapping with a lazy rhythm as he watched the onyx man from his periphery. The wolf-dog's mouth twitched slightly, parting as pink tongue passed over silken muzzle.

If you can't handle lust, the Red Palace is not the place for you, he replied finally, turning his head and rolling back on an elbow to study the stranger. His gaze traveled languidly down the willowy form and back up again, meeting hazel eyes before blinking back to the crowd with an amused chuff. Coyote blood suggested fellahin, but the attitude said otherwise.

You must be new to our revered palace, The man remarked, his ears pulling back and a devilish smirk tugging at the corner of his maw. He regarded the stranger through eyes half-lidded, tail flicking idly at the stone beneath. His gaze lingered, tracing the contours of the newcomer's form with an unsettling intensity.

Tell me, Machiavelli continued, his voice a low, melodic murmur, what brings you to our illustrious domain? Are you here to seek pleasure, power, or, his eyes sparkled, reflecting the light of the cold, distant stars above, perhaps a bit of both?

no worries!! u are always worth the wait (also it is payback for the ancient wren/moss thread)

i can handle it, izaiah snaps back, challenging the smirk with a bored roll of his eyes. i just don't give it out for free. for that was not the way of his God, even if His light could not reach these red-tinged caverns.
he shuffles an inch or two closer, feeling his skin burn beneath the set of eyes which watched him. he feels as if he is prey. he's not sure how to feel about it.
pleasure, power, or perhaps a bit of both; the question lingers in the humidity before he answers. hate to burst your bubble, but neither, he scratches at his arm absentmindedly, avoiding the lurid gaze and turning his own attention back toward the roaring current of bodies. i was sent here. i'm a medical scribe. or, i guess you people call it a sesh.
he sneaks another berry into his mouth, clammy palm now stained with wine-colored juice. izaiah, he then says, offering his name and the second plump fruit which sat between his pads. i don't usually partake in this stuff, but, hey, it's a party, isn't it?

Thank you <3

Don't give it out for free? Machiavelli's sudden outpouring of laughter was rich. Do you think anyone does? Here in Akashingo desires are both indulged—and weaponized, dear. Power is the ultimate currency, and pleasure the ultimate form of power, is it not? A serpentine grin illuminated his face, venomously hypnotic eyes fixed on the newcomer. Machiavelli pulled his drink close, the contents within scintillating in the dim light, a chilling glint in his gaze that suggested thoughts far from innocent.

I can appreciate a man of values, let's see how long you'll stick to them, Machiavelli murmured, his voice dropping to a low purr as he tipped back the contents into his waiting mouth.

Sesh, hmm? The fellahin repeated thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took another look at the man through the heavy fringe of his blonde lashes. Indeed, Machiavelli agreed. He reached out and retrieved the berry from the man's outstretched paw, rolling it under one pearl-pink nail with deliberate slowness.

His gaze lingered on the berry, a flicker of something dark and hungry flashing in his eyes before he looked back up at the obsidian man. You don't have to convince me, Izaiah, he said with a soft chuckle. Then, with a fluid motion, he popped the berry into his mouth, his teeth closing around it with a satisfying pop, his expression one of almost predatory satisfaction.

i would argue that knowledge is power, izaiah retorts, the hazel eyes glimmering in the cool bath of moonlight. the warm, rolling burr of the man's accent makes the hair upon the boy's shoulders stand on end. and don't call me dear. at least take me to dinner first.
the fellahin leans close, and izaiah feels the prickle of heat that pools beneath his pelt. he feels the pressure of a nail against his skin as machi takes what is offered, and the boy cannot seem to peel his eyes away as the berry slips between his teeth; watches as it is crushed, consumed, devoured.
he coughs (gayly), covering his mouth with a slender wrist. i am a sesh, yes, he repeats it again in an effort to regain his now very much lost train of thought, tall ears flicking as if unperturbed; but surely, surely the man-harlot would've noticed by now the tension that clung to his acquaintance. i was trained and sent here as-- a gift, i guess, to the pharaoh. my mentor wanted me to broaden my horizons. he thought this was the perfect way to do it.
but i shouldn't complain, he adds then, uncomfortably readjusting himself so that he may look just the slightest bit taller, though the pale man still had a good bit of height on him. this place is... entertaining.

The man-harlot savored the moment, the taste of the berry mingling pleasantly with the thrill of the game as he listened quietly to the information his acquaintance offered. 

Knowledge, hmm? he mused, his voice a soft, contemplative murmur as he traced the rim of his leaf cup with one delicate nail, the movement languid in its meditation. I daresay I'm inclined to agree.

It’s quite fascinating, really, he remarked, his tone light and conversational, Knowledge, as you say, is power, however, only when complimented by the wisdom to see the garden for the roses, no? His shattered-glass eyes flicked upward, catching the moonlight and reflecting it like fractured gemstones.

For example, Machiavelli continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, knowing when you're drawing one into a game... and when you're the one being played. He smiled, leaning forward slightly, pale throat stretched delicately so that he might peer up into hazel eyes directly. 

Tell me, Izaiah, he purred, the words soft and inviting, are you the kind of man that sees the roses or the garden?

izaiah, being the type of man he was, wanted to delve into this topic as much as the next guy — or, more truthfully, be wished to be lulled into blissful honey-gold wonder by the purl of machiavelli's accented voice — but the web he was beginning to spin with his words was enough to stir a fleeting moment of sobriety from him. his brows furrow, the cogs behind his eyes visibly turning, now beginning to slump forward into a lay. the raven black limbs stretch in front of him like tendrils of dark smoke.
we're all being played, all the time, he finally answers, crossing one forelimb over the other. we're all cogs in the grand machine of life. no one is truly free. sometimes you think you're neither, when you're really both.
qashon. minya. akashingo.
his tail flicks; the hazel eyes harden as if they were made of stone. i'm the kind of man who is a rose in the garden. i'm-- only a piece, a fraction, one that just makes up the larger picture. i don't matter as an individual to the garden's caretaker. i'm just... there, a pretty thing to look at. and one day i'll wilt and die, or get picked and shipped off somewhere else.
but at least i can enjoy my time as a pretty thing, one brow raises, chin tilting upward to bathe in the twinkle of the stars. machi's eyes burrow into him still, as if he were building a home of his own beneath izaiah's skin. and i can learn to appreciate being looked at.

Wonderful! A man with a philosophy, Machiavelli chuckled once more, a warm smile spreading over his lips. What a clever boy you are, you might just do well here after all, he reached out a dove-white paw to brush against Izaiah's shoulder complimentarily.

Machiavelli laid his fair head down upon his paws, listening to Izaiah with the knowing expression of someone who could have heard the same words fall from his own mouth. His stained-glass eyes remained fixed on the newcomer, glimmering with a mixture of amusement, and something darker.

Hmm... He let the sound linger in the air, his tongue flashing briefly over wetted lips. I think I can appreciate looking...imagining. The words were soft, almost ruminative, yet they carried an edge that made the air around the pair crackle.

The man rolled onto his back, gazing up at the stars dancing in the distance. Have you had anything to eat yet, Izaiah? he asked finally, his voice a gentle murmur that contrasted sharply with the ferocity of his gaze.