Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

The dog adjusted the pelt, drawing it close as though it might shield him from more than just the cold. His paw, retreating, curled tightly against his chest, eyes tracking the prince's movements.

Perhaps, the piebald man agreed, his voice low, reflective, as he absorbed this new information, however, unfortunately for all but her Highness's self, she chose Rashepses. And, as you’ve rightly said, she appears to be quite taken by him.

He tilted his head, the faintest trace of a tart smile curling at the corner of his lips as he smoothed a wrinkle from the edge of the pelt. I do agree, however, Machiavelli continued, tone sharpening, that both his gluttonous ego and lust for power lie entirely out of check. It is a matter that his wife, in her infinite power and— a pause, his tongue lingering briefly on the word before releasing it, —protectiveness of her people, would do well to address. Particularly if she is as steadfast in that duty as so many seem to insist. The final words landed heavier, underscored by the faint shift of the feathered tail against the pelt, a restless movement that betrayed the otherwise statuesque stillness of his body.

Machiavelli let the silence stretch just long enough to invite contemplation before tilting his head the other way and continuing: So, Erpa-ha, Pharoah's chosen Prince of Akashingo, what is your intention with all of this? A second calculated pause, the dog's eyes glinting like a blade.

To see Rashepses removed from power, perhaps?