Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Be the First to the Feast, Let's Choke on the Past

Machiavelli’s awareness flickered like an ember smothered by ash, flaring briefly before it was snuffed out again, slipping in and out of consciousness during the journey. Sensations came and went in flashes—rough paws, the sharp jostle of movement, the whisper of cold air against his face— but it was all fragmented, slipping from him like water through his paws. Every time the fog began to lift from his mind, dragging him toward wakefulness, his consciousness was snuffed again, plunging him back into sleep. Each brief moment of clarity vanished before he could piece together the shadows of his surroundings, leaving him disoriented and helpless.

Now, as he awoke once more, the haze that clung to his senses slowly began to fade, but the heaviness in his limbs remained. The dog's eyes fluttered open, revealing a world dimly lit by soft, dancing light, only—

Machiavelli bit down hard, his teeth clenching as a wave of nausea rolled over him, sharp and sudden. His stomach churned violently, and he hunched forward, gagging dryly, body heaving with the effort.

His limbs trembled uncontrollably, weak beneath him. A cold sweat broke out along his fur, slicking it to his skin as his body shuddered, wracked with a tremor he couldn’t quell. His heart raced wildly, thrumming in his chest like a trapped bird, desperate and frantic, as if trying to beat its way out. His vision blurred, swirling with dark shapes that danced just beyond the edges of his sight, twisting in and out of focus, taunting him with flickers of movement that weren’t there.

Gods he felt awful. How long had he been out this time?

He forced himself to steady his breathing, the stale air of the cave clawing at his throat as he coughed, raising a shaky forepaw to wipe his mouth. His head throbbed, the pulsing ache a dull roar in his skull that made it nearly impossible to think. He had to get home. To the garden. He needed it.

@Herod.

The scent hit him next, oppressive in its abundance— the air, the messy foliage he had slept upon, the fibers of his coat. He expected, almost instinctively, to taste the bitterness of herbs forced into his mouth again, or to feel the cold press of the elder's paw. His skin prickled with phantom touches, but...nothing came. Just the steady drip of water from some far-off crack in the ceiling and the occasional whisper of wind through the rocks. The trailing sensations along his skin just that— phantoms.

He was alone.

The realization was slow to settle in. Cautious disbelief colored his thoughts, and for a moment, he simply lay there, unsure if this newfound solitude was real. But the stillness was undeniable, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Machiavelli wasn’t under the Abbot's immediate watch. His senses sharpened in cautious disbelief as he blinked groggily, working to clear the lingering fog from his vision.

The walls were rough and jagged, glimmering faintly as golden webs of some unknown mineral ran through the rock. The reflected light from those veins shimmered like liquid sunlight, pooling on the walls in ethereal patterns that danced with his breath. The air was cool against his fur, a sharp contrast to the heat of his wounds, smelling strongly of night creatures and old forgotten bones. Yet faintly— fresh air— somewhere nearby.

A cave. He was in a cave that was not Muat-Riya.

Muat-Riya. Safiya. Was she safe? Had she managed to escape their attackers and make it to Akashingo? He pictured her, small and fierce, wrapped in the protective folds of the capital’s walls. Maybe she was curled up somewhere, resting peacefully after the horrifying ordeal, or perhaps training with the other mazoi, her spirit as unbreakable as always. The image brought him comfort, but it also fueled his desire to stand, to move, to do anything at all.

Machiavelli tested his weight on his forepaw, wincing at the soreness but finding it bearable. His hind leg, however, was another matter entirely. Pain radiated from the limb, sharp and sickening, a deep, throbbing ache that brought on a second wave of nausea. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up with considerable effort, leg curling uselessly against his stomach.

The fresh air grew stronger as he limped forward, its scent cutting through the staleness of the cave, guiding him toward the entrance like a beacon. The golden veins in the walls shimmered brighter with each step, casting warm streaks of light across the uneven stone floor. It was there, just ahead— the mouth of the cave, glowing faintly with the soft light of the outside world.

But as he rounded the final bend, the scent hit him like a wall—thick, pungent, unmistakable.

Godsmouth wolves. At the entrance.

Machiavelli halted, his heart skipping a beat. He had not truly expected to find freedom so easily, but the reality of their presence still sent disappointment crashing over him like a wave.

He scuttled back into the shadows, mind ticking in a desperate search for a plan to distract them and make his escape. But it was too late; pawsteps echoed down the passageway, and Machiavelli was met face-to-face with an unknown wolf.