Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Herod.

That was all that mattered. All that filled Machiavelli’s focus, sharpening his senses to a single, searing point. He could not hear Eset scream his name; the world beyond the next breath and the frantic thud of his heart was lost to him.

Herod.

That voice, dripping with poison.

Machiavelli did not register the streaks of blood smeared along the cavern wall, or the way it spilled down his face. The way his vision sparked like a thousand stars before his eyes with every hit.

Only The Abbot's foul mouth and how it would not stop spewing venom.

The bowl—clutched in his trembling paw—was brought to Herod’s lips, forced between them, spilling its contents with each gasp and sputter.

And he would hold his mouth shut and never let go.

Never, even as The Abbot foamed.

And writhed.

Shook, clawed, bucked.

Went still.