Two Eyes Cenote ninety-third

Flavor roll for sanity: 6

The beast, once known as Machiavelli, had been left to wither away in brooding solitude for days on end. The ceaseless musings on the incident with the coyote woman, and the child's innocent observations wound tighter and tighter, twisting away at what remained of its fractured mind.

Having been pulled from the most shadowed recesses of its cell, it hobbled now through the Blue Palace's winding corridors. Each step was a struggle, its thinning paws and stilt-like legs pulling through the air as though it waded through a thick, invisible sludge. The heavy silence was only punctuated by the erratic beat of its heart, a relentless thudding that grew louder and more insistent the further it strayed from its cell.

The beast’s thoughts ebbed and flowed like the tide, occasionally crashing against the shores of its consciousness with unwelcome memories, only to retreat into a vast, numb void. The cold, cracked stone beneath its feet felt distant, each step tentative and uncertain, as if the ground might suddenly disappear beneath it. There was a disconcerting heaviness in every footfall, a disconnected jolt as if it was descending for just a moment too long before finding its footing once more.

The dog's mind was fuzzy, oh so fuzzy, and it wished for nothing more than to be allowed back into its cage where it might sleep. But instead, it was being dragged along, to test a new form of torment, a device or punishment certainly... not that it particularly cared anymore.

Deposited into a chamber, the creature sat obediently, eyes flicking around the room but focusing on nothing. Its movements were detached as it lifted a forepaw to prod at the remaining thorns jutting from its swollen muzzle. It had refused to allow anyone to remove them—it did not want to be touched. The skin, inflamed and painful, radiated a faint heat. Most of the barbs had been removed, but a few of the most obstinate remained, jutting out with a stubbornness that reflected the beast’s own. It considered them indifferently, as though removing them was a distant concern—one it would attend to in its own time.