Hideaway Strath Synapses Snap Back in Blissful Anguish

For @Zitari Le <3

The man limped to the river’s edge, attendants hovering at his sides, steadying him with firm paws to keep him from slipping. He hesitated, dipping a tentative paw into the water to test the gentle current, before plunging his weary body into the river’s frigid embrace. The icy shock hit him immediately, stealing the breath from his lungs, but with it, the relentless ache that had gnawed at him seemed to ebb away, drawn out by the cold. It was an uncomfortable exchange, but one he welcomed.

The dog leaned back against the grassy bank, letting the water cradle him, his muscles loosening as the river did its work. Around him, his disciples moved in quietly. They combed through his tangled fur with gentle paws, untangling each knot and snarl with reverence, massaging the tension from his slender shoulders, his back, his aching limbs. The rhythmic motions lulled him into a state of half-consciousness, a deep sigh slipping from his lips as he surrendered to their care.

This—the simple luxury of being cared for by another—was something he hadn't realized he'd missed so keenly. The soft caress of the water, the devoted attention of his followers, the quiet moment away from The Abbot's overbearing attention. Here, in the river’s icy embrace, surrounded by the gentle hum of his disciples’ care, he would allow himself to sleep. Just for a while.

Zitari trailed along the river, letting out a tired yawn before seating herself besides it. Her tail flicked back and forth as she took a few laps of water before standing up to stretch out her hind legs. It had been some time since she’d finally been able to relax.

Her gaze shifted down towards the river, a shiver running down her spine as she made eye contact with her own self — a scar, one running down from the underside of her eye and dragging across her snout. Her once beautiful face now plagued with an irreversible sign of rejection. Or at least, that was what she was convinced of.

She turned away from the water, the sudden sound of splashing causing her good ear to turn towards the noise. She followed after it until she finally caught sight of something she surely hadn’t expected. A golden pelted wolf being tended to by a group of what seemed like servants relaxing by the river. A highly curious sight.

Drawing in a bit closer, she watched it go down, tilting her head.

I totally responded to this logged into the wrong account! Please just act like this is Zitari while I switch them out lol. If you need a desc for her, she’s a ginger, white & brown wolf on the thinner side!

His moment of respite was destined to be fleeting. A rustle from downstream pierced the quietude, pulling the man from the tender clutches of slumber. He straightened, opalescent eyes locking onto the wolf as his attendants gathered protectively around him. She was no creature of Godsmouth, that much was abundantly clear. Perhaps one of Herod’s freshly recruited mercenaries sent to test him?

With a reluctant groan, he heaved himself from the icy shoreline. The warmth of the midday sun cascaded over him like a golden blanket, chasing away the autumnal chill that clung stubbornly to his sopping coat.

On one paw, a potential opportunity glimmered; on the other, he hesitated, unwilling to squander his precious moments of freedom on mercenaries.

Identify yourself. The words slipped from his lips, cool and commanding; the only introduction he currently deemed necessary.

Her head jerked up in response, having been under the impression that she would be ignored. She stood up, shuffling a bit closer and opening her mouth to reply. "My name is Zitari." She mumbled under her breath, her body language showing signs of unusual coyness.

The closer she got to this wolf, the more she realized how beautiful he truly was. There was something unique about him — foreign to their species, though somehow the same. Bright markings throughout his fur that made her wonder if he truly was a typical wolf. 

Who was he? Why did he have so many servants? Where did he come from? Her natural curiosity fought to burst out as questions filled her mind by the second. — No. She’d gotten herself in trouble in similar ways before. There was no way she was going to make it out alive if he decided that she stepped over the line, so for that reason, she would remain simply curious until she figured him out.

You are dangerously close to Godsmouth’s camp. The words, though softly spoken, carried an undercurrent of warning—perhaps even the edge of a threat. Yet, there was no suggestion he intended to act upon it himself.

If you’ve come seeking trouble, I would urge you, in the strongest of terms, to reconsider. The opal-sheen gaze swept over the stranger’s frame, lingering on the scars that marked her skin and the lean, almost fragile build beneath. She didn’t appear to be the mercenary type, but Machiavelli had been deceived before. He knew better than to trust appearances alone—yet this was a risk he might be forced to take.

However, if your intentions are otherwise... He allowed the words to hang for a moment, the tension in the air dissipating ever so slightly. You’re welcome to join me, should you wish. His voice softened, adopting the warmth expected of one who had made their profession in hosting others. Are you hungry, Zitari?

As if the words had trigged her stomach, it rumbled harshly as if she’d been starving for days. Ever since she had left she’d been surviving off of small hunt and bitter plants that she probably shouldn’t have been consuming. It was easy to tell her hunger — she guessed — sheerly by the scrawniness her build had taken on. Though it was true she’d always been thin, it had never been due to hunger before.

She eyed him cautiously. The eyes of someone who’d been deceived one before. "Will you truly offer me food? I fail to see what you gain from something like that."

She was cautious—an encouraging sign. Machiavelli's splotched lips curled into a hint of a smirk. Turning to his attendants, he drawled, his voice smooth, I believe two cuts of venison shall suffice. Oh, and do bring the wine. A few sprigs of mint leaves as well—thank you, my darlings.

Noticing their hesitation, he added with an airy, almost dismissive tone, You may go. I hardly think our guest would be so foolish as to attack me whilst we provide her dinner, hmm? Machiavelli's gaze flicked to Zitari, lingering on her with a pointed look, checking for any flicker of reckless intent. He allowed a small, amused smile to grace his lips as his disciples departed.

Only once they were alone did he speak again, his tone softened, though no less refined. You have found me in a mood for company, however, if you find yourself wary of such... generosity, he began, his voice lilting with measured politeness, affable smile unwavering, perhaps we might strike a bargain instead? A meal... in return for a favor. Is that less suspicious? He cocked his head to the side as he settled onto his haunches, turning his body subtly away from her so the gash in his leg was not quite so visible.

She took a nervous seat beside him. Still far enough to be able to jump out of the way if he lunged at her, but close enough. The idea enticed more than simply gaining a free meal, that was for sure. She thought for a moment before speaking once more. "Fine then. That sounds fair." She nodded. "..But don’t try to make me do anything funny! I-I’m a real fast runner, you won’t be able to catch me once I start goin." She exclaimed, puffing out her chest. 

Sure, she wasn’t exactly confident in her statement, but she wasn’t going to make that obvious. Or at least, that’s what she thought. The trembling tone of her voice didn’t help her case out very much.

Machiavelli listened intently, noting the validity of her concern yet unable to help a flicker of offense briefly crossed his ivory features. His expression was delicate yet unmistakable, a slight lift of his chin signaling his disapproval. I only ask "funny" things of clowns, dear, he sniffed. Although he supposed that might only concern her further if she turned out to be a fool after all.

No, what I seek is far simpler than that, Machiavelli continued, I merely wish to know—are we east, or west of the desert? That is all. The request was straightforward, though there was an unmistakable urgency in his gaze.

She cocked her head up-right and opened her mouth a bit to get a better sense of the winds around her. "I believe we’re west of the desert at the moment." She said. Her head tilted to the side in confusion. He looked quite serious. 

"Why do you ask? Not that I’m trying to pry." She reassured, seeming slightly worried that he would take it the wrong way. It wasn’t uncommon that she was snapped at. She just hoped that it wouldn’t one of those times.

As far as the dog was aware, only two major mountain ranges bordered the desert basin, anchoring it like bookends in the barren stretch of land. He knew the eastern ridges well from his travels with Akashingo nobility, however, not the westward range that he now knew himself to be trapped in. This was unknown territory, though not as wholly unfamiliar as before. A minor revelation, but enough to offer a faint sense of grounding.

A flicker of hope crossed his features as he weighed his options, and he leaned forward, words poised at the edge of his tongue. Yet, as if in warning, the sound of multiple paws thudding against the ground silenced him.

He turned, offering a cordial smile as he met the eyes of the disciples, projecting an easy, practiced charm. Lovely, just set it down here. Thank you—much appreciated, loves, he murmured, a touch of warmth in his tone as he gestured with a wave.

Then, turning his attention back to Zitari, his gaze sharpened. My business is my own, Machiavelli replied, his voice an unhurried, velvet drawl, like someone adjusting their cuffs. You've upheld your end of the transaction wonderfully, so I bid you eat your fill. If this is not enough to sate you, you only need ask for more, he finished, passing a berry between his splotched lips.

As soon as his confirmation was given, she snagged the meat laid out before her, ravaging it quickly. Had it been due to the small prey she’d been consuming so far? She was ever so hungry. The white fur covering her chin and neck was stained red. Her sloppiness and hunger extremely clear. How pathetic must she have looked? A scrawny and scarred young wolf far away from home.

She didn’t dare look over above her. She knew all too well the looks of pity and disgust that would follow. It had always just been better to keep her eyes on the ground. 

Seconds, then minutes passed. Perhaps more than she had thought. The feed before her had been completely demolished, leaving nothing but scraps and stained sands. She glanced up, her functioning ear lowering. "Thank you." She mumbled through shy words. "I apologize for doubting you. Are you sure the direction is all you need?"

Machiavelli’s gaze remained distant as he picked at his meal, his eyes drifting absently over the nervous woman while his mind wandered through a web of plans and contingencies.

Only when she spoke did his attention shift, his focus narrowing to her with a slow, deliberate turn of his head. A slight, bemused smile touched his lips as he lifted the tortoise-shell bowl, pausing to savor a draught of wine. You are wise, my dear, not to put your trust in strangers, he murmured, his voice low, as smooth as the dark berries that warmed his throat. I am quite certain, however, you needn't trouble yourself any farther.

With a languid stretch, he rose, directing his attention to a nearby attendant with an elegant nod. Do see to it that our guest has something to sustain her on her journey, won’t you? A modest offering—nothing so extravagant as to delay her departure.

Afterward, Machiavelli inclined his head graciously toward Zitari, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, before stepping back into the frigid pool. The cold bite of the water seized his muscles, but he welcomed it, settling deeper into the icy current.

Do linger as long as you like, Zitari, he breathed, reclining into the waters. Should you wish it, my associates can provide whatever care you might need. A wash, perhaps… or a balm to ease those sore muscles from your journey.

"I don’t need anything more." She shook her head. "This was more than enough." Her gratitude was true. He’d done more for her than anyone else she’d encountered thus far. His offer to linger a while did temp her, though. Loneliness was a bitter feeling. That didn’t mean she could remain there forever .. but a small bit of conversation wouldn’t hurt. 

Her thinned forelegs tucked themselves beneath her chest, granting warmth to fight against the autumn breeze. She’d always bundled up with Kekoa and Kaisaan during the cold season. That couldn’t happen anymore now though. No point in yearning for something that couldn’t be achieved. Her brother was dead. Both of them, most likely. It had been months since they departed, what were the chances that her ten month old littermate would survive all on his own? Sure, she chased into her hope, but hope wasn’t as reassuring as one would think. She shook the thoughts away, turning back towards the man before her.

"Then, just for a while .. I’d like to rest here." 'Safely' She thought to herself. A feeling of security surrounded her newly found stranger. Even if it was just for a bit, it’d be nice to breathe without questioning whether she’d make it till morning for just a short while. "Will you tell me stories of your life as we sit?" A strange request to some, but not anything foreign to the young girl. She had always loved listening to the stories of those around her, and this man looked as if he had lived a thousand different ones. Surely sharing a few couldn’t hurt?

With nothing more than a flick of his ear, Machiavelli signaled, and a soft hide—brought with the intention of drying his thin frame—was brought for Zitari’s comfort. She’d find refuge from the cold, and he would make do with another back at camp.

But now she wanted a story.

What, he wondered, could he tell her? His mind sifted through memories like jagged stones, each more twisted than the last. How he had cannibalized his lover? Or perhaps about the time he had slaughtered his council in cold blood? Maybe even how he had buried his old self, only to be dragged back kicking and screaming and told to dig?

Machiavelli was nearly childlike in the way he sunk under the waters, pink nose blowing a jet of frustrated bubbles as the stream lapped at his cheeks. His grip on reality had become loose—more so than it already had been that was—in the passing weeks, yet he still understood those were not exactly sharing material. How did one politely confess that their past was far from anything fit to share?

He racked his brain for one that wouldn't—rightfully—terrify her.

Once, when I was very young...there was this boy I knew, Machi leaned his head back against the bank, closing his pale eyes as he remembered. This boy had a rather brilliant, and frankly reckless, idea to sneak out past dark—past the guards and sentries—to see the stars from a tall hill nearby. I was horrified, naturally, but he… well, he had a way about him, persuasive, you might call it. And I was, perhaps, rather desperate to impress him.

He chuckled, a soft, warm sound, laced with something young and long-buried.

He managed to coax me out, and there we were, two little ghosts slipping past the guards. It was as if every cricket, every rustling leaf, was set to betray us. But we reached the top, and the boy stretched his arms wide, as if he could scoop up the whole sky, the halfbreed continued, his own arms pulling wide at the recolection. He tried to get me to lie down in the dirt to stargaze ‘properly,’ as he put it. I remember acquiescing, lying there, stiff as a board, refusing to relax—still mortified that we’d broken curfew.

Machiavelli’s smile grew, a touch of wistfulness in his expression.

But he was so delighted, pointing out the constellations and whispering about the ‘adventure’ we were having. For once, I didn’t mind the dirt or the rules we’d broken. I only minded when dawn came, and we had to slip back in. I was utterly certain my master would know exactly what we’d done. But he simply winked, patted my shoulder, and promised, ‘It’s worth the scolding.’ And somehow...he was right.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Machiavelli allowed the memory to linger, softened by time yet sharp enough to feel real again.

Zitari watched the splotched wolf as he spoke, a glimmer of awe glazing her eyes. His words were filled with love and intent — a rare thing to her, at the least. The story reminded her of the days she shared with her littermates. The days when her face was pure of all scarring and scabs and her blue eyes weren’t dulled by the reality of this world. 

Days where she herself had been loved.

It left her with a strong feeling of longing. She wondered if he felt the same urge that she did. His eyes seemed to yearn for more. Why? Had he lost his companion as she had lost her kin? She knew the feeling all too well. "Tell me, where is this adventurous boy now? Does he still hold the same boldness?" A hopeful thought. Perhaps her feeling had been wrong. 

She hoped it was.

Machiavelli’s eyes opened slowly, their opalescent depths hardening as he turned Zitari's question over in his mind. For a long, still moment, he merely watched her, letting the echoes of Juno’s laughter play between his muddy ears.

Finally, he exhaled, the breath slipping free like a sigh he hadn’t meant to release. He's no longer with us, I'm afraid. The words came measured, quiet, but even his practiced calm couldn’t smother the weight beneath them. His gaze drifted, drawn to some distant point beyond her shoulder.

Still, I hear him sometimes, he continued, voice almost a murmur as though he spoke to air rather than listening ears. A word here, a laugh there. He blinked, opal eyes catching the light, yet remaining unfocused, cast toward the past rather than the present. Since returning to Godsmouth, those faint murmurs, that ghost of Juno’s laughter, had only grown louder, more insistent, and in some small part, the halfbreed knew Juno would no doubt be horrified by the man he had become.

The dog winced, shaking his head as though it ached. But enough of my ghosts, he said softly, turning his gaze back to her with a faint warmth in his eyes, a glimmer of deflection in his tone. Your turn to share, dear.

Her eyes remained on him for a moment longer, she understood. The silent breaks between his words spoke more than the sentences formed afterwards. The loss of one who was loved. Her head shifted downwards for just a moment, a somber feeling overtaking. The wolf hoped that he felt her remorse. They were not all that different, though from completely different worlds. They shared a similar pain.

A man who lost his heart and girl who lost her home. Perhaps fate had brought them to meet.

His sudden switch of interest caused her to pause, thinking of a tale to tell. Something came to mind after a moment. A story to share. 

"When I was born, I had a sister. One who looked just like me, just without flaw." She gestured towards her dangling ear, chuckling. "Her one problem was her weak nature. A meek soul, that one. When we gained our vision and hearing, my mother prayed that I would gain the ability to hear sound from both ears. It never happened, though. So to her I was abnormal. A defect. For that reason, even though I was healthy otherwise — she favored my sickly sister over me." An unexpected bitterness filled her mouth as she continued on. Perhaps it was sourced from the built-up anger she had been pushing down. 

"So instead of clinging to my mother, I always chased after my brothers instead. Constantly begging for their attention." Just the thought was enough to cause a smile to cross her face. "Be it of pity, or kindness .. one day, they told me to join them on a walk. They took me far away, about an hours worth of traveling. Something our mother would lose her mind about once we were found out. A valley with a river running through it waited for us upon our arrival. We ran, and wrestled and played for what seemed like an entirety in that clearing. It was the most freedom I’d ever felt. It was beautiful." She took a shaky breath in. Why couldn’t they stay frozen in time there? It seemed so very unfair.

"Anyhow, eventually we returned home, bickering on who would take the blame the entire way back. A childish argument. .. That was the happiest moment of my life. A moment where I was myself completely. Without watchful or judgmental eyes."

He made no move to interrupt, only reaching out, wet arm dripping faint ripples across the water’s surface as he stretched to retrieve the nearly empty bowl of wine. He swirled the remnants slowly, watching the dark liquid slosh and spiral, its deep red staining the bowl wherever it touched.

It is a rare thing, to be seen for all that one truly is, he murmured thoughtfully, paw stilling mid-swirl. A few stray droplets slipped over the rim, scattering crimson over the clear water. With what could nearly be described as reverence, he raised the bowl, voice low, To us misfits, then, and to those we leave behind.

With a slow tilt, he poured the last of the wine into the pool, watching the dark liquid spiral and scatter like fish, swept swiftly away by the water’s steady current. He lingered, eyes tracing the red as it dissolved, then settled back, allowing his aide to continue her work on the tension in his shoulders.

Your mother, he mused, probing yet not without genuine interest, was she the reason you left home so young? His opalescent gaze flicked to hers, wondering if her departure had been born of pride—a need to prove herself worthy in a world that had dismissed her too quickly. Or perhaps there was another reason?

She shrugged. Many different reasons came to mind, but she ended on the simplest. "She turned me away. The only thing I was left with was this wretched scar on my face." A snarl broke through her hushed words. Full of hate. "I suppose it was her first and final gift." The girls tail — that had been previously tucked beneath her — flicked irritably. What a nasty thought. A permanent engravement, something meant to ruin her. 

She watched as he swigged the wine, the maroon gleam from the bowl reflecting in her eyes. Red mixed in with her blue. ‘Misfits like us?' The term seemed oddly familiar. Maybe that’s what granted her such solace in this stranger.

"Funny, isn’t it?”

A dove paw lifted to the man’s neck, brushing the damp fur as Zitari’s words settled over him, his opalescent gaze fixed absently on the river’s current. He didn’t respond immediately, only the slightest tilt of his head betraying his attention, eyes cold and quiet.

Hilarious, he replied finally, voice flat but edged with something unreadable. With a slight nod to his disciple, he allowed them to help him from the river’s edge, water dripping from his fur in silver trails as he took unhurried steps toward Zitari. He stopped just short of her, crouching low, his pale eyes tracing the jagged path of the scar on her face before settling on her icy gaze. A quiet, thoughtful hmph escaped his nose as something subtle shifted within him, a scheme set aside for another.

I realize you were just settling in for a rest, my dear, but might I tempt you with a small diversion? A field trip, if you will. He tilted his head, a faint smile curving at the edge of his mouth, but his eyes shone with sincerity. I believe I may have something that would intrigue you. Nothing untoward, I assure you. No tricks, no mischief.

The devil did not lie.

She stared back at him, her gaze unwavering as he examined her. Frozen in place. — No. Not by fear. This was trust. Trust that this strange fellow wouldn’t harm her. 
His suggestion didn’t trigger much thought. She had always followed her hearts wishes when it came to sudden decisions. Some may call it impulse, others, bravery. To her it was all one in the same. So what was the first thing that came to mind? "Then when shall we depart?" Her response was frank. 

They say souls never encounter eachother by mistake. Truth was what the man spoke. At least, that is what she felt. He had yet to steer her wrong so far, so why not? It made sense to Zitari, anyhow. 

She rose up onto her hind legs, taking a proper seat to look him better in the eye. "..I’ll join you on this journey of yours." Her words were firm. "So I’ll trust your word as I trusted the cuts of venison you gifted me. I believe you. No tricks. No mischief."

Machiavelli’s smile curved faintly, his expression unreadable as he rose with a soft wince. Very well, Zitari. No sense delaying—it’s only a short walk through the woods.

He nodded to his followers, signaling them to gather the remains of their small feast. As they worked, he retrieved the empty wine bowl, giving it a final rinse in the stream, watching the last crimson traces swirl and vanish. Once all was tidied, he led the way, heavy limp now visible in the uneven steps he took toward the ravine. Every so often, he would pause, pressing a dark shoulder against a tree, catching his breath in quiet defiance of any disciple who offered assistance with a simple, slight shake of his head. He could manage on his own.

The trail wound into a clearing, where he dismissed his attendants with an unhurried thanks, gaze following them as they disappeared back into the camp. This way, dear, he murmured, casting her a sidelong look before ducking into the cave on uneven steps. His pale eyes caught the light and reflected it ten-fold as he moved into the darkness.

The cave walls glimmered faintly with veins of gold streaked through the stone, catching the dim light like threads of fire. He reached out, letting a clawed paw trace along the cool surface, guiding Zitari deeper through the winding tunnel.

Please, make yourself comfortable, he said, gesturing to a modest nest of woven mosses and leaves arranged in the corner. This will take me a moment.

He moved with purpose, his attention shifting to the rubble scattered about the cave floor, opalescent gaze lingering on shards that sparkled like metal sunlight. Selecting a suitable piece, he began grinding it into a fine, glistening powder, and once he had gathered enough, he caught a few slow drips of water from the stalactites above, mixing the two until a thick paste formed, which he studied with quiet satisfaction. The crude creation held a pleasing shimmer—not the fine cosmetics of Muat-Riya, but more than acceptable for such short notice.

Removing a few of the larger grains with his nails, he turned to Zitari, the faintest glimmer of warmth and intrigue in his gaze as he approached and knelt before her. His voice softened to velvet.

May I?

She returned his grin with a small chuckle. The weight in her heart felt a small bit lighter to handle. Following after him, his limp triggered no malice. Simple concern. Nevertheless, the girl had a feeling he could handle himself. She stayed close behind. 

The entrance of the cave was dark, quiet, hard to see into. Signs that she shouldn’t enter with him — they usually would be. She shook her head. Thoughts like that wouldn’t help her now. 'No tricks. No Mischief.' His words echoed in her head repeatedly. She mumbled them softly under her breath. She it as she followed in behind him.

The wolf stayed right next to him once inside, glancing around cautiously. Her eyes scanned the cave as they walked, only taking a seat once instructed. She watched as he walked over towards the corner, selecting a sparkling piece of rock to begin grinding. A crystal, perhaps. She’d never seen one before. Just heard thing now and again. 

The glistening dust occasionally made an escape off of the bowl, clinging onto his gorgeous fur. He glimmered as the fake stars hugged his frame, almost as if he was glowing. The man looked as if he had taken a stroll through the night sky. Zitari’s eyes reflected his light.

'Beautiful.' She thought once more. It made her wonder if he knew it himself. Caught in her own thoughts, she flinched a bit when he turned back around towards her. She straightened up as he approached, his gentle words smoothing over her frazzled brain. 

Right. She had decided to trust him. 

"If you would be so kind." 

It was with the gentle hand of a practiced fellahin that Machi worked the golden powder into the scar, each movement as careful as if he were brushing a priceless canvas. He held the small container just far enough from her nose—a lesson learned through the missteps of past attempts with Rooke. He wondered, briefly, how the boy was faring, but set the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Once finished, he stepped back, tilting his head as he surveyed his work with the intensity of an artist lingering over a final brushstroke. He examined the subtle gleam of the gold against her fur, the way the cave light caught and glinted off the line, transforming the scar into something luminous and unexpected. Finally, he nodded, murmuring softly to himself. Very good. Quite remarkable, really.

He realized then that his expression had fallen to something flat in his concentration, almost too distant, and he quickly softened it with a smile, a trace of warmth flickering over his otherwise cool features. He guided her toward a small pool of water collected in a natural basin within the cave, its dark surface still enough to mirror her reflection.

What do you think? he asked, his voice a low murmur, rich with subdued satisfaction. The scar he had so carefully gilded gleamed faintly in the low light, a shimmering thread across her skin, as if she bore a sliver of sunlight within her fur.

Not so wretched now, wouldn't you agree?

little gift for you <3
Thank you for the thread!