Two Eyes Cenote might & meat

If Machiavelli had planned a sarcastic retort, the sharp command from Khusobek swiftly extinguished it. The faintest flicker of annoyance crossed his pale features, a momentary tightening around his mouth, before he smoothed it away, letting his customary, unbothered smile settle back in place.

Of course, Khusobek, he replied, his voice as smooth as ever, though his gaze lingered on the captain a heartbeat longer than it should have. His movements remained fluid as he peeled himself from the entryway, his multicolored coat catching the dim light in brief, shifting patterns, like a ripple across water. The half-breed crossed the room with a dancer's ease, his paws gliding over the stone as he gathered a selection of the available plants. His movements were meticulous, as though handling something sacred, though in truth, it was less reverence and more an attempt to focus his wandering mind.

He laid the stems neatly in the center of the room, where the light pooled just enough to work. The moment his back was turned, Machiavelli let out a quiet breath, the slight tremor in his paws visible momentarily before he steadied them, hovering delicately over the plants he had selected. The dog turned then to Meseba, offering a smile that bordered on flirtatious yet lacked all of the associated warmth.

Meseba, dear, he purred, his voice smooth as silk. Machiavelli's posture remained poised as he turned slightly toward him, but the opal eyes remained fixed on the herbs. Could you be a darling and fetch a serving of honey? And wine as well. He paused, his gaze flicking thoughtfully toward Khusobek, the tiniest spark of something mischievous lighting in his eyes. Two servings of wine, actually. Thank you, he added with a gentle smile, already leaning back into his work, leaving little room for disagreement.

Captain, Machiavelli began again, his voice holding a soft, almost coaxing tone as he turned smoothly toward the man, though his chest tightened uncomfortably when their eyes met. If you would be so kind as to assist me while our dear friend fetches the remainder of the supplies? There’s a slate with a rather large rock atop it in the corner—both are needed.

He shifted slightly, making just enough space for Khusobek to stand beside him. Machiavelli lifted one clear-pink nail, his paw steady despite the increasing rate of his heart, and pointed to the collection of stems spread out before them. Yew, oleander, hemlock, he named softly, gaze flicking up to meet glacial blue. There, for just a heartbeat, his eyes betrayed him—an almost imperceptible flicker of nerves, a brief spark of uncertainty, before he quickly returned his focus to the deadly plants beneath his touch.

He couldn't help but wonder how the captain would react, if he had any knowledge of the poisons Machiavelli so carefully handled, or if he trusted him, in this small, intimate space, with such dangerous materials. Meseba had made his disdain clear, but Khusobek remained more difficult to read.

Machiavelli’s thoughts raced to the last time he had been this close to the russet guard, images flashing unbidden to the forefront of his mind—the feel of Khusobek’s weight pinning him down atop the stone, the vines wrapped around his muzzle, how his heart had been so loud in his ears. His paw rose unconsciously to brush against his mouth, and for a moment, it seemed as though Machiavelli might make some fleeting remark or jest, until—

Each one dangerous in its own right, he continued, his tone slipping back into the smooth cadence of professionalism. However, testing must be done to ensure their potency.