Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

Sorry for the late reply! I'll try to be a bit quicker with the next one.

The man could be found in a forgotten corner of the palace grounds, where sprawling prairie grasses met desert sand. His thin figure lay wrapped tiger-striped in shadow, hidden beneath the swaying foliage.

Just how long had he been lying there? The answer seemed unclear. But one might observe the way the dust and sand clung to his pelt, giving him the appearance a figure sculpted of clay and grass and all manner of natural things, left then to be remembered only by the earth and her slow envelopment.

As the Prince's voice broke the silence, the grasses burst to life as if startled, and something small bolted into the distance. The cold, opal-sheen eyes tracked the retreating figure's disappearance, a small huff of air escaping through the dog's nose.

Slowly, Machiavelli unfurled from his reclined position, limping forward a few paces from the dense thicket and onto a patch of ground where the wild growth began to thin. A dirt-stained forepaw rose and began to cover something over with earth.

He did not look up, his attention fixed upon his work.

Of whom do you speak?