Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

Machiavelli had long lived by a principle, learned early and held tightly: never offer flattery unless it is deserved. To the dog, empty praise was more than just dishonest—it was a double-edged sword. People were often far more intuitive than they appeared, and hollow words had a way of breeding resentment, cutting deeper than silence ever could. Perhaps it was this very belief that lent him a certain allure; when Machiavelli offered praise, it was genuine. He meant every word, and that sincerity, often drew others to him, like moths to a flame's dying breath.

So when his opalescent eyes narrowed, thoughtfully traveling over Khusobek, it wasn’t out of vanity or jest. His gaze lingered with genuine consideration, unbothered by convention as he studied the man like one might study a work of art—one demanding a closer look. He shook his head slowly, voice carrying a tinge of disbelief, almost as if dismissing some absurd notion.

Dour, perhaps. Ruined face? The words came soft, with a slight rise of his brow, as though the very idea were something that didn’t quite sit right with him. Boldly, he lifted a paw, gesturing with an almost playful insistence. Don’t be so modest. Turn for me, will you? Let me see you in full.

And with the air of an artist contemplating the delicate brushstrokes of a portrait, he took his time—his gaze sweeping over the captain as though weighing every scar, every line, every imperfection, not as flaws, but as defining marks of a story well-lived. The smirk that tugged at his lips was subtle, teasing, as though he had only reached a conclusion after this thorough assessment.

No, no, I think not, Machiavelli declared at last. You do yourself a disservice. I’m quite certain you must drive the women wild.

And in that moment, Machiavelli may not have known just how much his past mirrored the guard captain's own, but some part of him felt the kinship, sensed a kind of quiet understanding between them. It lingered there, unspoken but not unnoticed.

For now, however, he let his thoughts drift inward, pondering the truth in Khusobek's words. A flicker of self-awareness crossed his expression, and a small, self-deprecating smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps you’re right, he admitted. If my childhood has taught me anything, it’s that nobles often believe they have nothing left to learn. His mother’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, a ghost from long ago.

Machiavelli’s eyes softened as he shifted the conversation, glancing down at his paw before continuing. I wish to teach Safiya about gardening. Nothing dangerous, of course—just the simple art of growing lavender. Though, I can understand why the prospect might seem... less than agreeable. He hesitated, weighing his next words, then extended an olive branch, a wry smile flickering across his lips. I extend the invitation to yourself as well. Perhaps you might join us and preview just how suitable a teacher I am.