Two Eyes Cenote [M] A call from Olympus, ringing off the hook

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For @Legend

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Machiavelli looked around the vast landscape. The surrounding trees seemed to tower over him unnaturally, their branches twisted and contorted just enough to be unrecognizable.

A distant rumble heralded the advance of an impending storm, rolling over the hills to rustle the branches overhead. The rust-coated man inhaled deeply, expecting the familiar embrace of the rain's impending arrival—its soothing touch to quell the storm within him. Instead, the air was invaded by an unexpected fragrance—a flower—light, sweet, and bubbly. He spun on his heels, trying desperately to find the source of the smell, peering under bushes and around gnarled roots for the familiar pouch that might contain it.

The approaching storm tore through the hills with alarming speed, a voracious devourer of all in its path. Simultaneously, the atmosphere metamorphosed, growing hot and humid, as the scent in the air transformed into something equally alarming and recognizable: the iron tang of blood.

It was dripping from the heart of the storm.

Survival became paramount. Discarding all thoughts of the pouch, Machiavelli spun away from the approaching terror and bolted, each stride a frenzied attempt to outpace the encroaching tempest. The storm grew closer, its roars evolving into chilling screams and moans of pain that echoed through the air.

His breath came in ragged gasps, a harsh rhythm punctuated by the relentless pursuit of the storm. Every muscle strained as he pushed his limits, his senses overwhelmed by the suffocating weight of the atmosphere. The air grew thick with impending doom, a suffocating embrace that sapped his strength and dulled his reflexes.

Machiavelli risked a glance backward, only to be met with the sight of the advancing behemoth, a monstrous manifestation. Panic surged as his paw collided with a hidden root in the underbrush, ensnaring him. A gasp tore through the heavy air as he tumbled, screams ringing in his ears like a relentless barrage, threatening to shatter his sanity. Desperation fueled futile attempts to free his paw, the relentless screaming marking the encroaching doom surrounding him.

He looked back at the storm, morphing and shifting before his very eyes and taking the form of writhing heads, feminine, young, pretty, rotting. The massive cedars fell before their screeching maws, lost in the frenzy of teeth. The ones he did not save came to collect their pound of flesh.


The man yanked his paw free with a gut-wrenching snap, an involuntary cry of pain escaping his lips. It was a futile struggle; he knew he couldn't outrun the impending doom that loomed over him like a malevolent specter. Hot blood trickled from his ears, stinging his eyes, and the metallic taste of fear lingered on his tongue. Bracing for the inevitable, he awaited the wailing jaws of his tormentors to snap shut around him, their hot breath overwhelming him and threatening to whisk him away into the abyss.
But nothing happened.

Machiavelli cautiously opened his eyes, finding himself suspended in a void, a realm neither dead nor alive. The disorientation enveloped him as he questioned the very direction he faced. Through the impenetrable darkness, he propelled himself forward, swimming against the currents of the unknown.

Time lost its grip on him. Was it a minute, an hour, or an eternity that passed? There was no way to discern. Eventually, he emerged, coughing violently as he expelled the thick black ichor. Rising above the pool, he beheld a crimson sky devoid of stars.

He was not alone. A grotesque head floated before him, swarming with flies and dripping with tar but still recognizable beneath the decay. Its eyeless sockets bore into him, seeming to regard him before letting its mouth fall open and a guttural question spill out.

"Why?"

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Machiavelli shot up suddenly, a threatening snarl twisting his maw. Opal eyes glossed over in a daze of confusion and the sudden awakening. There was someone in his room again; he could feel it. He blinked a few times, willing his eyes to focus, before narrowing upon the out-of-place figure. He should have known.