Two Eyes Cenote might & meat

set after this! no posting order! <3

there existed in khusobek no desire to seek out @Machiavelli. a better man might have operated beneath sharm, but the crocodile was married to a hierarchy which meant he mattered more than any servant.

he had ignored the ways in which @Meseba had glowed for eset. perhaps taking such a softhearted man to her bed would be healing for the hebsut, and far more appropriate. he did not care for her dalliance outside their world.

the thought of her distressed khusobek with his own obsession. the mazoi halted. "will you go and get him?" he asked of meseba. "inform him that eset sends us."

The piebald dog slipped soundlessly from his chamber, his lean frame melding with the shadows that clung to the palace walls. His pink nose twitched subtly, testing the air with cautious precision as he padded down the narrow hallway. No trace of Eira tonight—no lingering scent, no soft shuffle of her steps. She was likely curled up in her guest chamber, lost to the quiet embrace of sleep. Still, Machi moved with care, as if the very stones beneath his paws were listening.

Meseba would not have to look far—nor at all, really. As Machi approached the chamber, he paused briefly at the threshold, his gaze drifting over the scene within. The two men appeared preoccupied, their voices were a low murmur in the otherwise silent corridor.

Machi made no effort to announce his presence, slipping in like a wisp of smoke. He kept close to the limestone wall, his opal eyes flickering briefly over the pair before he continued his path, sliding past them with the grace of someone accustomed to staying out of sight—whether they noticed or not, it hardly mattered. He was not here for conversation.

a firm nod is given to the captain as he is sent to fetch machiavelli, but as meseba turns to face away, to exit to fetch him, the spoken of slinks into the chamber where they were.

gaze follows him for a moment, determining that machiavelli was intent to ignore them or go unseen. it doesn't sit well with meseba, who draws in breath that lingers in his chest.

machiavelli, commands meseba. come here. there was no sense in the other man slinking 'round like a ghost. not when meseba had already seen him and they needed him anyway. he looks to the crocodile then, waiting to see if the captain would speak.

"machiavelli."

the last time he had gazed into those eyes, they had been tortured by pain and glazed with hatred; he remembered the blood spat and the way he had twisted the thorns. and even now he should have found himself appalled to discover no regret. not for what he had done. only who it had been.

"we have just come from attending eset," khusobek said to the alabaster wraith. "she has sent me to you for poison, which implies you have discussed such matters beforehand."

was it not true? it was machiavelli's turn now to speak.

At the sound of his name, Machi’s ears flicked, and he halted mid-step, turning to face the men behind him. His opal eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, curiosity piqued.

The poison? His brow arched ever so slightly, surprise flickering across his sharp features. Eset must have reconsidered. His voice was measured, almost bemused, Very well—this way. We addressed it months ago, and once more after my release, though... He slowed his pace, glancing over his mahogany shoulder with a questioning gaze. She didn’t seem particularly receptive to the idea then.

His gaze lingered a moment longer, before he resumed walking, his strides smooth yet cautious. Eset feared one of the children might stumble upon it, so it was relocated to one of the unused chambers at the far end of the palace—near the prison. It’s closer to the guest entrance, but I’ve been forbidden from entering that part of the palace as of late. We’ll need to take a longer route.

Without further elaboration, Machi slipped through the servant’s entrance, his pace quickening as the cool night air brushed against his sleek coat, opal eyes cutting through the shadows as he led the way around the cenote’s edge.

Eventually, they reached a fissure in the rock wall, its narrow entrance nearly hidden in the crags. Machi halted, gesturing for the Mazoi to follow before sliding inside the crevice with practiced ease. The passage was tight, but not uncomfortably so, lasting only a few paces before opening into a wider chamber.

Almost there, he murmured, his voice low but steady as he nodded toward a tunnel winding further up the wall. It was a narrow path, half concealed by the stone. With a swift motion, the half-breed leaned back onto his hind legs, pearl-pink nails gripping the porous rock as he gave an awkward but determined hop, scrambling his way up the uneven surface. He lingered at the top, breathing softly as he glanced down and checked to see if the men required assistance before continuing further into the tunnel.

Here we are, Machiavelli finally panted, his breath light as he halted at the entrance to the chamber. He stepped aside, allowing the Mazoi to enter the garden beyond. Sadly, some of them did not survive my... prison sabbatical. His words were laced with the faintest hint of irony, but his gaze remained fixed ahead.

meseba does not like the idea of being trapped in a tunnel with the snake of eden, who speaks with soft irony .but he shrugs into the tunnel, breath stilling as he steels his shoulders tighter to his body to make himself fit.

claws splice against rock as he climbs to where the fellahin awaits and peers into the shadowed inner chamber where the poison plants wait.

a pity. offers meseba dryly, laced with the opposite of contrite; barbed wire wrapt 'round each syllable.

but he is not an assassin and alas must rely on machiavelli to show them how to use and carry the flora. on the subject of eset changing her mind, he speaks not. it is up to eset if she wished to discuss any of this with machiavelli.

how do we transport it? touch it? prepare it without poisoning ourselves?

there was nothing that meseba liked about this.

a long glance was exchanged with meseba as machiavelli's slender hips glimmered their way forward. "i would ask how long you have been discussing poisons, but it seems irrelevant now."

his shoulders were pinched by the stone; he grunted to shove himself through it, sprinkles of dust falling down upon them.

another path, another series of toeholds almost too tiny for his broad paws. beleaguered and annoyed, he pushed his way into the garden and glanced around.

dappled beauty and eldritch light, but such loveliness was wasted in the captain's annoyance as he glanced pointedly to the servant on the receiving end of meseba's dry tone.

Mesaba’s venomous words dripped through the air, but Machiavelli greeted them with a disarmingly pleasant smile. His opalescent eyes shimmered beneath the moonlight, framed by the gentle flutter of pale lashes as he remained poised in the doorway, the night casting a soft glow upon the pearl of his fur. His body language was languid, almost inviting, as though completely unaffected by the other’s contempt.

Khusobek’s impatience made itself known as he pushed past him, and Machiavelli stepped aside with a graceful tilt of his head, a coy chuckle curling from his lips.

Ourselves? Are you offering your help in its preparation, guard?

the chuckle and question to meseba's own needles him. words sting like an angry asp beneath his teeth but he fights the urge to snap them. to put him in his place, to remind him. and perhaps meseba's distrust and anger is misplaced but all he knows is that machiavelli has placed eset and muat-riya in danger.

from slavers hunting him.

i may not know anything about poisons but i do know we're only in this mess because of the slavers hunting you. mind your tongue.

while meseba glowered, khusobek watched machiavelli with a strangely observant air. detached, perhaps, as if better to understand the shape of the pearled hips and the soft, unhurried smile on the servant's mouth.

"enough," he muttered at last, cutting in after meseba. a heavy paw lifted. "the hebsut has asked for this. we will allow you to prepare what she has requested. be quick."

turning away from them, he turned his eyes over the glowing stone and the counterparts to the greenery, this garden nurtured inside the cenote by a man he still did not understand.

once more he found himself wanting to watch machiavelli; he did not, only slowly circled, facing the walls, exploring with his eyes their framing as the work proceeded. "what is it?" he said at last of the poisons themselves. "we should know what we bring, if only for our own knowledge."

If Machiavelli had planned a sarcastic retort, the sharp command from Khusobek swiftly extinguished it. The faintest flicker of annoyance crossed his pale features, a momentary tightening around his mouth, before he smoothed it away, letting his customary, unbothered smile settle back in place.

Of course, Khusobek, he replied, his voice as smooth as ever, though his gaze lingered on the captain a heartbeat longer than it should have. His movements remained fluid as he peeled himself from the entryway, his multicolored coat catching the dim light in brief, shifting patterns, like a ripple across water. The half-breed crossed the room with a dancer's ease, his paws gliding over the stone as he gathered a selection of the available plants. His movements were meticulous, as though handling something sacred, though in truth, it was less reverence and more an attempt to focus his wandering mind.

He laid the stems neatly in the center of the room, where the light pooled just enough to work. The moment his back was turned, Machiavelli let out a quiet breath, the slight tremor in his paws visible momentarily before he steadied them, hovering delicately over the plants he had selected. The dog turned then to Meseba, offering a smile that bordered on flirtatious yet lacked all of the associated warmth.

Meseba, dear, he purred, his voice smooth as silk. Machiavelli's posture remained poised as he turned slightly toward him, but the opal eyes remained fixed on the herbs. Could you be a darling and fetch a serving of honey? And wine as well. He paused, his gaze flicking thoughtfully toward Khusobek, the tiniest spark of something mischievous lighting in his eyes. Two servings of wine, actually. Thank you, he added with a gentle smile, already leaning back into his work, leaving little room for disagreement.

Captain, Machiavelli began again, his voice holding a soft, almost coaxing tone as he turned smoothly toward the man, though his chest tightened uncomfortably when their eyes met. If you would be so kind as to assist me while our dear friend fetches the remainder of the supplies? There’s a slate with a rather large rock atop it in the corner—both are needed.

He shifted slightly, making just enough space for Khusobek to stand beside him. Machiavelli lifted one clear-pink nail, his paw steady despite the increasing rate of his heart, and pointed to the collection of stems spread out before them. Yew, oleander, hemlock, he named softly, gaze flicking up to meet glacial blue. There, for just a heartbeat, his eyes betrayed him—an almost imperceptible flicker of nerves, a brief spark of uncertainty, before he quickly returned his focus to the deadly plants beneath his touch.

He couldn't help but wonder how the captain would react, if he had any knowledge of the poisons Machiavelli so carefully handled, or if he trusted him, in this small, intimate space, with such dangerous materials. Meseba had made his disdain clear, but Khusobek remained more difficult to read.

Machiavelli’s thoughts raced to the last time he had been this close to the russet guard, images flashing unbidden to the forefront of his mind—the feel of Khusobek’s weight pinning him down atop the stone, the vines wrapped around his muzzle, how his heart had been so loud in his ears. His paw rose unconsciously to brush against his mouth, and for a moment, it seemed as though Machiavelli might make some fleeting remark or jest, until—

Each one dangerous in its own right, he continued, his tone slipping back into the smooth cadence of professionalism. However, testing must be done to ensure their potency.

while machiavelli's delicate hand lifted to his mouth — to stifle what khusobek believed to be a yawn or gasp — his own pulse remembered in prudent heat and no small shame how he had hurt the fellahin; how he had meant to hurt machiavelli.

how the application of pain inflamed something raw and tantalized inside khusobek; how this had always been so. he saw the power of his body next to that of the servant and felt the ticking of his heart.

slate. rock.

in silence he brought them, and looked now upon the greeneries that had no true difference to his eye. "how will you test them?" loud his voice felt in the tiny space, and he felt thirst in him for the wine mentioned, and the honey he hoped also to taste.

yet this realm of emerald things did not belong to him, and to machiavelli he deferred in such quarters. sliding the rock to one side with great ease, he held it beneath one paw as the silken head of the servant bent before him.

for a moment their eyes had twined; was it fear which had lain itself bare to khusobek? unsurety raced through him, but had he not already placed his trust in such things? beneath the pour of light, machiavelli glowed in purest marbletone, and the crocodile stepped back to observe.

by rote, his eyes drifted toward the path, as if an enemy might show themselves there. to the healer he was a guardian for now, and in his role this moment he discovered a specific pleasure.

Thank you both for the thread! <3

The tension was nearly unbearable. Machi turned to gather the offered supplies, only to hesitate, paw hovering until the Captian turned away.

The yew berries came first, the half-breed's pale-pink nails skimming over the crimson flesh. Carefully, he plucked the seeds from the yew's flesh and piled them to the side for later use, and after a brief moment of consideration, slipped one discarded skin past his lips. The sweetness struck him unpleasantly, sticking to his tongue in a way that left him grimacing. Determining that he rather preferred more savory tidbits, he extended a paw, a solitary red bead resting upon it, an invitation should Khusobek wish to share the experience.

I suppose it’ll depend on who trifles with my patience this week, he murmured, his voice a low drawl as he positioned the heavy stone over the seeds, each one surrendering with a crisp, satisfying crunch. The opal gaze brushed against Khusobek’s icy blue for a heartbeat, then returned to the task. A jape, should there be any doubt. Rabbits, I believe, are a sound place to begin.

Silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic press and crush as he ground each seed down to a fine powder. He took his time, methodical, savoring the focus his work demanded. The arrival of the wine was a welcome interlude; one was passed to Khusobek, while the other he downed in a single swallow. Only when the thudding of Machi's heart had dulled to an ignorable volume, did he bend over his creation once more, folding the puree into the provided honey and watching it blend into the glistening amber.

The dog lifted the mixture, angling it into the light with a small, satisfied smirk. There, he whispered, his voice softened, reverent. I do believe it’s ready for trial.