Ocean's Breath Plateau scarabs

despite his drenched state, machiavelli moved with a grace that was sheened enough to be called polish. for the first time, senmut wondered about the origins of this fellahin, and how he had come to be not a noble, but a servant.

the salt continued down the other's coat in rivulets. at one time, the crimson priest might have thought it rather rude to stare. but perhaps the effect of his rich office had worked upon him, for now he viewed such with the singular focus of an artist gathering muse.

upward flicked the verdant eyes; senmut gathered his ranking once more and stood tall before machiavelli, straight-backed. "indeed there is," he rejoined solemnly.

"you may begin by drying the sea from your coat before you catch an illness," now played the finish, and the prince dared a vague teasing to enter his expression. "or, you will permit me to do it,"and he stepped forward to take hold of the deerskin once more, feeling the cold moisture which hovered in the air around machiavelli.