Cedar Sweep Half Algorithm, Half Deity

The faint crunch of pawsteps in the distance pulled Machiavelli’s attention, round ears twitching as he turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. It didn’t come from the direction of Godsmouth’s camp—curious. A stranger, then.

His paw slipped away from the gnarled bark of the cedar, the rough texture lingering against his skin as he moved unevenly around the massive trunk, his steps lacking their usual flowy grace. The dog's eyes, pale and glinting with an almost detached interest, scanned the shadow-dappled forest ahead. There was a certain boldness in his movements, the kind that came not from confidence, but from a creeping apathy that had settled in recent days and numbed his sense of caution.