Haunted Wood You Know my Desire

For @Meseba
Backdated to shortly after this thread

The journey was marked, at least on the dog’s part, by a simmering, ill-tempered silence. He spoke only when necessity demanded it, each reply or observation more short than the last. Hackles raised, tail lashing in agitated arcs more befitting a cat than a hound, every minor inconvenience seemed magnified tenfold in the dog's mind. A snagged paw, an errant branch slapping against his thin frame, the uneven rhythm of his pawsteps—each trivial annoyance stoked the embers of his foul mood until it reached the point where it seemed the frost that clung stubbornly to the edges of the foliage underpaw might melt from the heat of the dog's anger alone.

Machi had deliberately set himself apart from the Mazoi, marching ahead just enough to keep the guard within earshot but not close enough to suffer his presence. When he finally slowed, it was with a sharp exhale, leaning against a tree with breaths that came in heavy puffs.

The leg had begun its rebellion miles ago, an ache he’d stubbornly shoved down into irrelevance. Now, however, it refused all compromise, the traitorous limb so stiff it might as well have been carved from wood rather than flesh, and the ache that radiated through it had begun to spread, its radius quickly doubled by the cold—his hips stiffened, his back tightened, and every step sent a jolt through him.

He held the chilly air in his lungs for a moment before releasing it in a slow breath, the icy mist pooling from his nose. His ears flicked, their tips stung by the cold, as they caught the faint murmur of water somewhere ahead. A stream, perhaps, though the thought offered little comfort. Still, he straightened and trudged forward, seeking out the source.

Machiavelli pulled his head from the frigid water, icy droplets falling from his chin like diamonds as his tongue passed over his muzzle. His gaze flicked upward through the bare branches and into the sullen, winter-grey sky, thoughts unreadable as he waited for Meseba.

meseba is content to let machiavelli lead the way — in part because he has never been to akashingo and admittedly does not know the way, and because it leaves plenty of distance between them. not enough distance that the other man wasn't beneath the chain-heavy stare of meseba's singular eye ... but enough that the chord of tension between them did not pull so taunt.

even so, bitterness lingers like a half dissolved pill in his mouth. barbed words stinging where they nip like hellhounds at his heels.

finally, meseba catches up to machiavelli; though largely at his own leisure as the other man stops. meseba prowls to the same water source machiavelli had taken a drink from and takes a long drink from it himself.

meseba offers no words, preferring to wait in stewing silence. either machiavelli would fill the silence or they would fall back to their traveling pattern thus far.