Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

machiavelli's grasp of courtcraft would always far outmaneuver anything senmut had cultivated over the years, and he offered a wan smile. "better yet — tell me what they are and lie down. maybe it is an order. i was born a servant; i am not a stranger to demanding work."

the pelt plucked up, hung around those slim pale shoulders once more. "you sleep. i will think of ways in which rashepses might be goaded into revealing more of his nature to those eyes who must see it."

he stepped back, a faint smile on his mouth, head inclined to hear any final protestations before he left machiavelli to the plain but plush heap of bedfurs.