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

Machiavelli’s gaze lingered on the dish before him, the conflicting sensations rising in his chest like a tide threatening to drown him. His opalescent eyes flicked subtly from the intricately arranged plate to Herod, his stomach twisting in a strange blend of hunger and revulsion. He was nearly ravenous—the aroma of the herbs, the fresh fish, the scarlet buds, called to him with the seductive allure of a siren's song. Yet another part of him recoiled, as though the meal before him were nothing but rotten meat masquerading as something fine.

For a fleeting moment, disgust and deference warred in his chest, the emptiness in his stomach clawing for satisfaction, and he prepared to bring the plate toward himself, but just as his paw began to move, a voice—a sweet, soft, entirely unexpected voice—broke through the tension.

If The Prophet is not feeling well, he should rest, came the gentle words, delivered by the young wolf who had seated Machiavelli, offering him a reassuring smile. Everyone will understand, with all that has befallen him.

Machiavelli froze, his paw lowering slowly to the ground. He hadn’t anticipated the interruption, nor the sudden outpouring of what felt almost like genuine concern. His gaze shifted to meet the girl’s eyes for a brief moment, and though his heart quickened, his expression remained unreadable. A sliver of relief crept into his bones.

With a nod, he rose from his place, drawing himself to his full height as he addressed the gathering below. His voice, though fatigued, still carried the smooth, honeyed resonance that had once commanded the respect of a crowd much like this one. My children, he called, his words flowing like velvet over the hushed assembly, I find myself weary and must retire to my chambers for the night. I bid you—eat, drink, and be merry in my stead.

The faint murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the gathering as his shattered-glass gaze flickered briefly to Herod, their eyes meeting in a fleeting moment of silent exchange. But Machiavelli did not waver; instead, he offered a subtle nod of thanks to the young attendant, his expression softening ever so slightly as he turned.

With as graceful a leap as could be managed, he descended from the outcropping, the cool air brushing his piebald coat as he moved. His heart still pounded beneath the surface, and though his expression remained composed, there was a knot of tension that twisted and tightened in his chest.