Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Outside, Machiavelli stumbled from the chamber, pausing only as his opal eyes traveled over those gathered. The courtyard was filled with Godsmouth's faithful, their eyes flickering with a feverish expectation. Men and women, children and elders alike, crowded close, gazes locked on him with a strange hunger. A shudder overcame him, a sick feeling rising from his stomach, and he quickly returned to his cave.

Where is Joanna? he asked, his voice hoarse, the words scraping out of his throat when a stranger entered his den instead. Preparing for the ceremony, Prophet, came the vague reply, and Machiavelli stared hard, turning the reply over in his head until he could understand.

Until he understood.

The shattered-glass eyes flicked to the tortoise-shell bowl hidden in the corner of the den. In that moment, he made a decision, though he felt detached from it, as if the choice was being made for him. A strange sense of peace washed over him as he turned to prepare himself, dusting his eyelids with a fine gold powder, smoothing down the tangled fur on his chest and face. Just as he thought to send away his attendants, a final adornment was brought forth—a collar, glittering under the reflected light in jeweled tones and gold filigree. The collar slipped around his neck, and he felt the cold press of metal against his skin, though his mind was far from the sensation, as though it sat on some stranger’s throat.

With each movement, each breath, he felt himself slip further, the world around him losing its grip, becoming something distant, strange with a peace that he had never before known. He picked up the tortoiseshell bowl, filled with a thick, crimson liquid that gave off a sweet, sickly scent. Turning, he placed it in the hands of a disciple with a quiet, hollow command. For the ceremony. Return it when I call for it.

He stepped outside, the sounds of the crowd swelling around him in waves, voices rising in chants that felt like the pulse of a great beast. The moonlight fell in bright, silvery patches across his coat as he moved down the petal-strewn path to the altar—a simple, rough slab of stone prepared for tonight’s offering. He walked as though in a trance, his mind eerily quiet, each step carrying him farther from any feeling.