Cedar Sweep Half Algorithm, Half Deity

For @Beau sorry for the wait!

Machiavelli slipped away from the camp, the shadows of Godsmouth receding behind him as he ventured into the cool embrace of the cedar forest. The air was thick with the rich, earthy scent of rotting wood and pine needles, and each breath felt deeply refreshing against the remnants of mineral and stale air that still clung to his lungs from the cave.

Deeper he wandered, the canopy above shifting as sunlight filtered through, casting golden splashes of light across the forest floor. The soft, rhythmic crunch of twigs and dry leaves beneath his paws was a welcome contrast to the tense stillness he had just escaped. Here, even the air seemed lighter, humming with life.

He paused beside a towering cedar, its bark weathered and gnarled. He rested his paw against its rough surface, pale-pink nail tracing the edges of the bark’s deep grooves. Had he been of a more druidic bent, he might have imagined the pulse of life humming through the tree beneath his touch. Alas, he was not, and his thoughts drifted instead to his garden back home. He could only wonder if the flowers had withered or if the herbs needed tending. His mind briefly lingered on Eset, trusting she would care for it in his absence, unaware of the turmoil unfurling in the lowlands.

He knew his time was short. His attendants would soon come searching—he was never far from their watchful eyes, nor from Herod’s looming gaze. But for now, in this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to savor the illusion of freedom, even if it was nothing more than a pleasant lie.

Grace was never something Beau had been known for. He spoke with little thought, often lacked empathy, and it was not common for him to misstep.

Today had been no different, a tumble leaving his pelt filled with pine needles and dirt. Wooded areas were never his area of expertise, and he had been left missing the comfort of the flatlands.

He had come this way to follow Leto, otherwise he never would have bothered - yet now he found that he could only admire her from a distance. She was much too preoccupied to pay him any mind.

Despite circumstances, he still wished to try. He would beg if necessary. That had been his only reason to come this way, for she had once spoken of the various critters that she preferred to snack on and he had intended to find her a gift.

Now he wandered, empty pawed. He knew perfectly well that there was no way of her knowing of his failure, yet he couldn't help but be embarrassed.

The faint crunch of pawsteps in the distance pulled Machiavelli’s attention, round ears twitching as he turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. It didn’t come from the direction of Godsmouth’s camp—curious. A stranger, then.

His paw slipped away from the gnarled bark of the cedar, the rough texture lingering against his skin as he moved unevenly around the massive trunk, his steps lacking their usual flowy grace. The dog's eyes, pale and glinting with an almost detached interest, scanned the shadow-dappled forest ahead. There was a certain boldness in his movements, the kind that came not from confidence, but from a creeping apathy that had settled in recent days and numbed his sense of caution.