Rosewater Oasis oh, i get it. you're not allowed to talk.

his mouth is dry like the desert sand he wades thru, wondering if the shifting of sands is endless, if he had perished and his ghost was simply too stubborn to realize it. he aches for thirst; desperation spurring him ever onward.

the soft sand underfoot is pliable to his footsteps, erasing his paw prints where he steps as it drifts on the warm, arid breeze.

he follows mother nature's path of desert roses, falling beneath the shade of a swaying palm at the rough rock edge of the small pond. where distrust would cause him to hesitate under normal circumstances he has been offered the very thing that has been haunting him and he laps at the warm oasis water greedily until he retches it back onto his paws.

a raw gasp follows. a cough.

and stark tries again, drinking slower this time.

Under the ethereal illumination of the moon's silvery glow, Machiavelli had quietly slipped away from the opulent confines of the palatial halls. He left no word of his departure, save for a brief exchange with the fellahin in the kitchen as he procured supplies for his journey. He had no expectation that his absence would be noticed, yet should any questions arise, there was at least an explanation to be found.
 
Pouches dangled from the corners of his mouth, swaying gently with each measured step as his dainty paws sank into the soft embrace of the red-gold sand.
 
Preferring caution over expediency, he forwent the direct path, opting instead for a circuitous route that wound through the lowland's barren terrain. Though the choice extended his journey, Machiavelli deemed it a small price to pay for the added security it afforded against potential pursuers.
 
As he ventured forth under the endless expanse of twinkling stars, the weight—or lack thereof—of the empty pouches served as a reminder of his mission's purpose. With his botanical supplies dwindling, replenishment was imperative if he wished to continue his experiments.
 
As night gave way to the rosy hues of dawn and dawn to the heat of the afternoon, the man pressed on, guided by the whispers of travelers and the faint scent of moisture carried on the breeze. In the distance, the silhouette of palm trees began to materialize against the blindingly blue sky, their slender forms a beacon amidst the barren dunes.

 

With renewed vigor, the man quickened his pace, his heart thrumming in anticipation. As he drew nearer to the oasis, the air grew thick with the fragrance of blooming flora and the refreshing, earthy scent of damp soil.
 
It was here, however, a hundred yards or so from his destination, that the man paused quite abruptly. A large and masculine silhouette marred the serenity of the water's edge, sending Machiavelli's hackles to stand, and tail to rise in quiet alarm. There was nowhere to hide here; he could only proceed or turn back now before he was noticed.
 
Slinking closer, he drew his eyes heavily over the figure, tracing the subtle indications of fatigue etched upon the stranger's countenance—the stooped posture, the way he drank with more desperation than one praying into the void of night. If it came down to it, the desert dweller was confident he would be able to outrun the iron-pelted stranger.
 
He dropped his cargo to his feet, clearing his throat to speak but ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Good evening, The man ventured, his voice carrying softly across the tranquil expanse, opaline gaze hard with caution as he sought the stranger's attention. Be you friend or foe?

there's a dull ache in his head that increases in severity with each pound of his heart. it's hard for stark not to count them when he feels them like a thunderous anvil in his skull.

he does not notice the stranger until his voice breeches into the space between them. with some effort, stark's head rises to stare at the pale beast across the pond asking if he was friend or foe.

his paw is covered in his own watery regurgitation; being much of anything other than desperate to rehydrate himself was more than stark could currently comprehend.

dehydrated, he rasps in answer. not looking to be anyone's foe.

The tension in the air seemed to dissipate as the piebald fur along Machiavelli's spine settled, though his rounded ears remained cautiously pricked. With deliberate steps, he approached the edge of the bright pink blooms, careful not to stray too close to the stranger.

Very well then, Machi replied, enjoy your water. His opal eyes briefly flickered down to the stained silver paw, a slight wrinkle forming on his nose as he observed the scene before him. I shan't be the one to take it from you.

With practiced efficiency, Machiavelli opened one of the pouches and set to work. Retrieving two small skins, he cradled one carefully in his mouth while deftly plucking some of the vibrant flowers and uprooted several more.

Once satisfied with the harvest, he gingerly placed the blooms into the container, arranging them with meticulous care before securing the makeshift glove back in place. The other pelt he picked up now, turning to face the water and see if the other man was quite finished. He would not dare pace any closer until the traveler had moved off.

stark watches as the stranger avoids him, as if he has the plague. he supposes, perhaps, it is a blessing in a disguise. he does not have the energy to entertain strangers and the stranger seemed wholly done with exchanging small talk.

stark takes another few drinks from the pond, determined not to show any further vulnerability to a stranger, rising to his paws. it takes some effort and his legs feel a little unstable beneath him; pale green gaze watching the pale man gather the desert roses.

a quirk of his brow given, feeling awkwardness like a palpable entity between them. he doesn't bother offering the stranger a goodbye, no doubt the man would realize soon enough that he'd left the scene. the sands swallow him up eagerly as he continues to head east, hoping it's the right direction and not going to simply take him in a circle.

Thank you for the thread!

Machiavelli watched the grey-coated man leave with a squint, wondering where he could possibly be headed. With the water unguarded, he soaked the skin before wrapping it around the roots of the flowers he had collected and closing the pouch.

With a few sips of the crystalline liquid himself, he gathered up his supplies and began his return to Muat-Riya.