Ocean's Breath Plateau scarabs

"i agree," the priest rejoined, warming more to their subject. "a prayer can take many forms. sometimes it is a song. sometimes it is wordless. sometimes it is only knowing the golden light of the sun or the cool depths of the sea, and feeling the gratitude that is ours to bear the gods."

the idea of machiavelli attending him elsewhere was a pleasure that almost lit his face to burning; he allowed the lingering, heavy-lidded gaze to speak for itself, and to say that the fellahin was beneath most poignant consideration.

perhaps it was the sea breeze! perhaps it was this wild place! he did not know; only that it worked upon he and his flesh and his appetites, which had begun to expand and hunger.

"so, do not think of the prayer's shape," senmut went on a moment later, feeling the air of the sea play across his wet arms, his soaked feet, "think only of the prayer. did you pray, machiavelli," and there was an air of teasing to him again, a gilded challenge which wove in and out of his gaze.