Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

no ur good! <3

anger rose sharp in senmut, followed by regretfulness. it was clear that machiavelli was not himself, and so he stooped, sliding his own palms through the dust until his toes bumped the smooth limb of the fellahin. "eset."

in boldness his arms went around machievelli, hauling the man upright. he had been sorely used and harmed; senmut sought the fracture of light in those pearlspill eyes.

"come." to the wellspring; he would sponge the dust from machiavelli himself. "i need to know what has happened."

earnestness replaced even the brief spark of rage.