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

He followed Herod’s movements with a detached stare, watching the lion climb atop the outcropping like some self-ordained king, basking in the adoration of his loyal dogs. The murmurs of worship rose like a low hum, insect-like in its persistence, their faces turned toward Herod as if he had just returned from hanging the moon.

And when those same eyes, bright with adoration, shifted to him—their Prophet—Machiavelli felt the weight of their gaze settle over him like a suffocating shroud. His pulse quickened, a bitter taste creeping up the back of his throat.

With a smile as brittle as the autumn leaves crunching beneath his feet, he forced out the words, a prayer on a dying breath:

Praise the gods.

When Herod, satisfied with the crowd’s adulation, finally descended from his perch, rejoining him with that ever-watchful gaze, the crowd's murmurs grew softer. Thank you, Machiavelli replied, his voice soft, though his throat felt dry. I'm sure it will be wonderful. His stomach churned. He followed after Herod, not unaware of how the crowd parted like the Red Sea as they approached, their heads bowed in silent reverence, watching with awe as the Prophet was led to his place.

He was led to a seat of honor, a raised outcropping above the throng where he could watch the crowd—or perhaps, where the crowd could watch him. He caught the scent of fish and, for the briefest of moments, a wave of relief washed over him. At least it was something recognizable, something safe. For a moment, he almost let his guard down, almost allowing himself the comfort of normalcy.

But then it was set before him, and his gaze fell upon the garnish—three buds, small and unassuming, laid in a perfectly straight line atop the pale meat. Their vibrant, scarlet hue was unmistakable, the same kind he grew within the confines of his secret garden, nestled in the shadows of Muat-riya.

The sight of them sent a cold shiver down his spine, and the small, fleeting comfort he had felt was quickly drowned by a wave of dread. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared at the buds, his thoughts spiraling. Of course, they were there. Of course, Herod knew. It wasn’t like Machiavelli’s need for them had simply appeared out of nowhere. It had been cultivated, like everything else. Another thread in the web Herod had woven around him, another subtle reminder of the control that still lingered, no matter how far Machiavelli thought he had run.

Machiavelli’s paw twitched ever so slightly, and for a moment, he could only stare dumbly at the meal before him, his mind whirling. Thank you for the meal, it's very... thoughtful. However I'm afraid I cannot bring myself to eat at the moment. He forced his gaze to lift, meeting Herod’s eyes, and pushed the plate away gently.