Rosewater Oasis oh, i get it. you're not allowed to talk.

Under the ethereal illumination of the moon's silvery glow, Machiavelli had quietly slipped away from the opulent confines of the palatial halls. He left no word of his departure, save for a brief exchange with the fellahin in the kitchen as he procured supplies for his journey. He had no expectation that his absence would be noticed, yet should any questions arise, there was at least an explanation to be found.
 
Pouches dangled from the corners of his mouth, swaying gently with each measured step as his dainty paws sank into the soft embrace of the red-gold sand.
 
Preferring caution over expediency, he forwent the direct path, opting instead for a circuitous route that wound through the lowland's barren terrain. Though the choice extended his journey, Machiavelli deemed it a small price to pay for the added security it afforded against potential pursuers.
 
As he ventured forth under the endless expanse of twinkling stars, the weight—or lack thereof—of the empty pouches served as a reminder of his mission's purpose. With his botanical supplies dwindling, replenishment was imperative if he wished to continue his experiments.
 
As night gave way to the rosy hues of dawn and dawn to the heat of the afternoon, the man pressed on, guided by the whispers of travelers and the faint scent of moisture carried on the breeze. In the distance, the silhouette of palm trees began to materialize against the blindingly blue sky, their slender forms a beacon amidst the barren dunes.

 

With renewed vigor, the man quickened his pace, his heart thrumming in anticipation. As he drew nearer to the oasis, the air grew thick with the fragrance of blooming flora and the refreshing, earthy scent of damp soil.
 
It was here, however, a hundred yards or so from his destination, that the man paused quite abruptly. A large and masculine silhouette marred the serenity of the water's edge, sending Machiavelli's hackles to stand, and tail to rise in quiet alarm. There was nowhere to hide here; he could only proceed or turn back now before he was noticed.
 
Slinking closer, he drew his eyes heavily over the figure, tracing the subtle indications of fatigue etched upon the stranger's countenance—the stooped posture, the way he drank with more desperation than one praying into the void of night. If it came down to it, the desert dweller was confident he would be able to outrun the iron-pelted stranger.
 
He dropped his cargo to his feet, clearing his throat to speak but ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Good evening, The man ventured, his voice carrying softly across the tranquil expanse, opaline gaze hard with caution as he sought the stranger's attention. Be you friend or foe?