Lion Head Mesa glory & garbling

his children were perhaps too old now, too set in their assigned roles, for him to tuck into soft beds. he remained with them as long as he was able, speaking softly of easier things than those which had come to pass.

it was in rote manner that he patrolled the quieting halls. pharaoh and consort had gone to find one another. inji was deeply missed, but he kept his mind from that. yet then his thoughts roved to the loss of his boys, gone now into the desert.

had he sent them upon a mission of death?

a breath raked from his throat. when the crocodile blinked he found himself atop the mesa, in the hallowed place of priestly roaming. unfit he might be to stand here, the breeze beckoned all the same, and the grieving man shut his eyes tightly as cold traced the great patch of scar tissue along his shoulder, his throat.

Ty for starting <3

If Machiavelli had a a bone for every time he trailed a wandering red man up the Mesa, he’d have precisely two. Hardly enough to build a proper skeleton, but it was strange that it had happened twice.

Machi had been working steadily at drinking away the throb in his leg when he noticed the Guard Captian's retreating form. Ever the picture of selfless hospitality, the half-breed wasted no time gathering a fresh serving of wine to accompany the one he was already nursing. With the bowls of fermented berry balanced and a call trailing after the Jodai’s retreating figure, Machi’s voice echoed off of the mesa's ancient walls only to be met with silence.

Machi, undeterred, set off in pursuit. Three legs or not, he prided himself on speed, and reasoned he might be able to reach the Jodai before he had gotten too far. Unfortunately however, as the gap between them grew and grew, it became quite clear that he had no intention of being caught.

That was only sealed once Khusobek had begun his ascent of the Mesa. The steep incline loomed ahead, and Machi, with no fondness for scaling stone and dirt—especially with only three working legs and drunk slightly inhebriated—paused after only a very short climb up. A tsk of disappointment left his lips as he resigned himself to retreat, the wine still in hand as he cursed men and their mystifying fascination for tall, hard-to-reach places.

And then—disaster.

A sharp expletive sliced through the stillness, followed by a splash, the unmistakable clatter of a tortoiseshell bowl against stone, and then... silence.

ofc! <3

sulking sobek was pulled from waking dreams by that sound. ears and nostrils drew tight and his body became the tensed sword already wielded in pharaoh's service. but senses explained it was machiavelli who had followed.

descending some way down from the mesa's top, khusobek peered through the darkness. sweet the scent of berrywine, now arched in a horrid spill upon the floor. and machiavelli close.

he did not think; khusobek had the servant in the hard crook of his arm, lifting him easily upward. now the dark liquid stained them both from where it had clung to his paws. "did you lose your head, my sweet?" teased toula's captain even as he began to ensure that machiavelli had not been further injured in his fall.

for all his jest, khusobek was enraged, a boiling pot with a heavy lid. he had not heard the story of the dog's return; he saw only one enemy, and surely it was they who had done this to his companion, to the faithful of muat-riya.

The beet-red dog's cries of shame and embarrassment—because really no, please don't look at him and he honestly was fine and should probably have just been left there—were cut short as Khusobek scooped him up as though extracting a very disgruntled cat from the tub it had slipped into. I lost that some time ago, I fear, the half-breed sniffed, smoothing down his soggy fur, then gesturing explanatorily, The rock fell out from under me.

Khusobek was offered what little remained in the other bowl, although that too was now hardly more than a sip. And what is this nonsense of, my sweet? the dog asked, mischief alight in his eyes, I'm afraid my absence has left you bold and mistaken, he tutted, I'm sure you'll find me well spiced, Machi teased, raising an arm dripping with wine.

But he cleared his throat then, expression growing somewhat sickly, I was hoping to begin our reunion in quite a different manner, but alas, tis the way of the universe, a light joke as he shifted uncomfortably, I did not know of your arrival, or I would have found you sooner—I wanted to apologize. You trusted me to care for Safiya, and—I failed. That is an error I will never be able to rectify.

drained, that bowl, and khusobek decided he wanted another. strong-armed, he kept machiavelli at his side and chose a path for them to his own sparse chambers with the unloved bed and the splashing of a private shower. for the captain, this was preferable to the lately quite-popular wellspring, and he would grant his companion space once they had arrived.

"safiya fought bravely. she is a mazoi, and in becoming this she is no longer a girl. she does not blame you. and i do not blame you."

poppets of pine marked the space where a near-constant stream of water flowed over red stone and was carried off by an aperture near the floor.

he had the ability then to call for another servant but did not; the crocodile regarded machiavelli with a bluster of gruffness and set several dry pelts nearby.

turning his head away, at the door he ordered for fatted meat and servings of a more opulent drink. "it is said that when ramesses was pharaoh, he decreed pine-sap be fermented with the same berries we enjoy. it is potent," the captain went on to explain dryly, "and will take the pain and embarrassment away without a single visit to tavina."

To the Captian's assurances, Machi did not respond, only nodding his head quietly, and because it was offered, resting some of his weight upon the larger man as they walked.

When they arrived at his chambers and Khusobek busied himself with the ordering of food, the dog made use of the stream, rinsing himself until his fur shone pearl-like once more.

We'll add it to the wine then, Machi replied, settling down with a hiss of pain. Two-fold.

in due time, a repast to fit his ravenous belly was brought: venison from the northlands, fresh mutton quivering beneath half-melted fat, rabbit marrow, and a sampling of clams gotten in trade and preserved in the cold.

but beside these things were the fermented wine and now two obelisks which held an amber liquid smelling strongly of pine. "it will make your throat taste like a forest," khusobek chuckled, lapping first the berrydrink and then a goodly draught of the fermented sap, "but soon you will not care."

their meal had been laid out upon a simple scrap of deerhide, and he fell to it with a silent, pointed gusto. "what happened to you?"

Machi dipped one of the tortoiseshells into the drink before tipping it back to drain completely. Hells, that's awful, he spluttered, coughing as the sap burned through him. Give me another would you, dear? The shell was pushed toward Jodai to refill while the dog passed his helping of the marrow across the hide in favor of the clams. I have not seen these since I left home, he commented quietly, cracking one open.

After we were assailed, Herod came to collect. The dog sighed, picking at yet another mollusk. He was not the one who broke my leg, that occurred during the initial attack, however, it was healing nicely until that bastard went and reinjured it, and now I'm sorry to say the pain grows worse by the day.

As Khusobek seemed hungrier than himself, half of the dog's serving of mutton was subtly slid across the hide as well. And what of you? I see you carry a few more adornments than last I remember.

a second for him. a second for machiavelli. the crocodile's head was swimming in merciful bliss quickly, though it had yet to affect the rest of his muscular body. that small paw did not go without answer; khusobek shoved his allotment of clams across the eating-place with no nuance whatsoever.

brow arched, as if to defy as he bit into the mutton and felt his belly sigh with pleasure. "i tortured the piss from soto. they came to claim him," and his jawline suddenly jumped in thrumming rage. "they had caught safiya."

a bone splintered under his furred fist, and now the staring eyes saw nothing. "they put out her eye for soto's torture. i gave him up and she came to us." the man's voice was dead. "i carried her to akashingo and i went back to find soto."

teeth glinted humorlessly. "i found him, they had stolen nokht. tortured him. i was prepared to die, machiavelli, one of their number's spine all but snapped in my teeth. pharaoh came then, and consort, and mazoi, and kingsguard. their leader was killed, they scattered. i will never have my ear again and this place will never grow fur again, i am told," flexing it for machiavelli to see.

"and the gods have denied me revenge yet again."

The man's stare was hard as he listened, expression growing darker with every grim reveal. If revenge is still your desire, a shell snapped in two, you can count on my assistance.

Drawing a paw to his neck, he lifted a swath of the soft curls to reveal similar scarring—some new, some old. We match now, a smile, sharp enough to be called a grin alit Machiavelli's features. I dare say, however, that it suits you far better.

"it does not fit to mar perfect creatures," khusobek grunted, though his lips curved in lazy admiration. "i told you once i was ugly. i do not mind being ugly," the captain said, reaching for a marrow-bone and cracking it between his molars.

"what did you have in mind?" came the question a moment later; curiosity could not help itself.

He was alive in that forest, mind drifting about with the eddies of leaves carried in gales so strongly scented of pine it brought tears to his eyes. But Khusobek had been right—he no longer cared.

Machi was sitting up now, leaning forward across the half-eaten dishes with a rather sour expression. It is unfortunate then, Captain, that you have made peace with traits you do not possess. I do not surround myself with ugly creatures. He sniffed, offended, and the silken voice drew tight, You insult me when you speak poorly of yourself, the opal eyes glowed with an arrogant presumption only aristocracy could award. Tell me you will not do it again, at least where I might hear it.

The man sat back then, alabaster face pulling in an expression that could only be described as a pout. Vexation had cost him his appetite, even for the clams which he so favored. Yet, it seemed from the way he tipped his head over his drink, throat bobbing in long, greedy gulps, that his thirst remained unaffected.

The next question, however, perked him up, washing away all evidence of insult more effectively than a wave over pawsteps. His ears drew from where they had sat against his skull, and he turned back to Khusobek, eyes glittering in a way altogether unholy. There are things I did—during my time serving as Prophet—that out of all dwelling betwixt the wall of this iniquitous palace and beyond, only you would believe, dear Captian.

The "gods" decreed it, you see—righteous justice to be doled out upon whatever vulgar beast fouled my domain. Machiavelli explained, tongue wetting his parted lips. Some murders, slavers, and the like. Others? Whatever poor sod had been caught fooling about with one beyond their rank. He cackled, the sound dark and wholly wicked.

Yet, I tormented them all the same. A steadying breath fell from him, eyes fluttering shut in remembrance. Some of them cried. Some of them begged, or repented. Others still would only breathe in that ragged way you do when you refuse to show you've been broken. And I cherished every moment, every sound a symphony sweeter than any bard's song.

His eyes opened to meet ice-water once more, mouth pulling back into a grin. Their victims were not ones that I knew and cared for. The light glinted off of his cruel fangs.