Cedar Sweep Half Algorithm, Half Deity

powerplay with permission
Assuming that he's following but if Beau wanted to run away I would not blame him sob
Please let me know if it needs changed! <3

I’d want it now, Machiavelli murmured as he continued his lopsided drifting. Where I come from—the lowlands, as it so happens—rare rocks are prized. They have their uses, you know. Ceremonies, adornment... some even grind them down for paints or cosmetics.

He paused, head tilting in curiosity as he met the stranger's gaze for the first time since parting from the tree. His pale, opalescent eyes lingered, drifting over the stranger’s face with an unsettling slowness, his expression clouded as though it had only just dawned on him that the man might not fully understand his ramblings. Do forgive me. May I have your name? I was rude as not to ask sooner.

If your lady friend cares little for luxury, Machiavelli said, beginning to walk once more, his voice dropping again into low tones as he did so, perhaps it could be traded for something more... practical.

Machiavelli halted at the tree line, leaning against a gnarled branch. His lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in near gasps with breaths that seemed to linger in the cool air like fading wisps of smoke. He was seeking a particular figure—the woman who had spoken up for him at the feast.

Joanna, he called softly, his tone coaxing, beckoning her closer. The faint fog of his breath mingled with his words, curling around him as he waited for her reply. Is The Abbot in? A simple shake of her head was all he needed. With this, a faint, shadowed smile crept over Machiavelli's face. Lovely. Let’s keep this between us, yes? Distract them for just a moment—private business, you understand. My thanks, dear friend.

He watched her slip away, his gaze lingering long after she disappeared. With a slow grin, he inclined his head toward the stranger, beckoning him to follow. This way, then. We'll get your lady friend something she couldn't get on her own. Something pretty. As he led the way down the ravine’s edge, his breath grew shallow, and his steps faltered, each movement a quiet struggle to conceal the growing fatigue that crept over him. By the time they reached the cave, the glint in his eyes had dimmed.

Here we are, my good lad, Machiavelli panted, slipping into the cave's shadowed mouth.