Two Eyes Cenote i'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre

i expected no company, meseba murmurs brusquely, a small thought that he hoped machiavelli hadn't expected him to answer differently. there was a distinct and definitive line of distrust between the oldguard and machiavelli. and he understands what the other man is trying to do, or so meseba thinks he does: sewing a sort of connection by touching upon Sopdet and Osiris.

but in the steady heartbeat like an ancient war drum in meseba's chest as he looks to machiavelli, whispers in a voice older than the sky and bones, how would machiavelli's heart measure against the feather? would the scales of justice tip in his favor or would his soul be left to the devourer?

how do you think your heart will weigh against the feather of Ma'at, machiavelli? asks meseba, ignoring the question asked in favor of his own. a heavy question, even if meseba himself wasn't even sure how his own heart would measure on the scales. maybe Ammit would devour his soul, in the end.

and maybe meseba was ok with that.

there is a soft bristle of meseba's guardhairs as machiavelli touches upon the fact that he was distracted. the breath that leaves the oldguard is a harsh push, a low snort. that is none of your business. a sharp snap of a book closed: meseba would not be offering any sort of insight into the his inner workings.

at least, not with machiavelli.