Lion Head Mesa [sc] eighty-second

i adore them sm! & ee congrats!

laughter; the rich spill of oil across velveteen cushion was its sound. "machiavelli." as if he was beneath the waters of the serpent did he distantly hear himself, sense his mouth floundering for each gilt syllable in the name of that prescient man.

water.

there were shapes upon the surface, shadows. reflections mingling, rushing into watercolor paint that turned the inside of his throat into a kaleidoscope. had a drink ever been so deep? so sweet? had he truly experienced water before that moment, or had his time with it before been some illusion of taste? "when the serpent rises, i wonder if Hapi feels his thirst as fully slaked as mine is now," the addled priest murmured, stretching the hard build of his peasant's body in luxury beneath the sun, turning his chest to the eye of Ra with a gasp of ectasy.

Min was still in him, that sly lewd god, turning the prince's scarlet head upon his crimson neck so that the dilated pupils might fill themselves more fully with machiavelli's beauty.

and for some indiscernable time, senmut only gazed with the intent focus of a scribe committing to memory inkspill and papyrus, knowing it must be destroyed before the message was carried. a memorization; the teasing mouth, the soft paling of the eyes with their knowing fire, the slender set of sculpted head upon poured-cream throat.

warm air soared from his nostrils, mirth assailing him. "i have to travel tomorrow. i will not be ready," the priest moaned in self-deprecation, turning back to Ra's hot stare and the play of sundance down his taut belly. for a time he was silent beneath the glare, eyes closed.

"i want you to accompany me. zaahira will come as well, and legend. a small entourage. we are to go and — look at soldiers. i am to discover potential beauty which might be used to the aim of akashingo. perhaps we will part ways, i do not know." he was out of sorts, attempting to draw solace and quietude from the very sun even as the effects of the drink began to rise once more in him, provoking another soft gasp of wonder and rolling gut. "that is not for me to decide. i am only a reed, to be plucked and sharpened and shaped into a tool my pharaoh might use."

senmut's voice held no ire at this, nor bitter resignation. a mingling of wonder and adoration patinaed his voice, a sense of rightness lancing sweetly though him as he spoke aloud to machiavelli's listening presence.