Bonesplinter Ravine [M] Viva La Vida

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Dark themes, ritual sacrifice, death

Backdated to Oct 31

Something dark and electric charged the air tonight, an energy that seeped into the walls, into the ground, into every believer who waited with baited breath. The courtyard was a strange, quivering mass of bodies and whispers, an audience in thrall to a silent promise that tonight, something unforgettable would unfold.

Summoned, the half-breed came limping, his steps slow and shuddering, forepaws sticky with scarlet that had dried in a stiff crust over his fur. He felt every jarring pulse of pain from his leg as he forced himself forward, his breath shallow, his eyes wide, the scent of flora and stale water filling his nose as he crossed into Herod’s chamber.

In the center, like a marble effigy of some ancient god, Herod waited—stark and statuesque, eyes black and fathomless, like the pits of a dried-up well. Watching as the boy stumbled forward, each step slower, more hesitant as he neared the lion’s towering form.

The Abbot’s paws, too, were stained red—but not from wounds. No, it was a very different type of scarlet that stained his paws, spilling out with every careful, velvet word that seeped like poison from his maw.

Hasdrubal, He stood from his reclined position, making his way to the Prophet with languid steps. Do you know what tonight is, my boy?

The hawkish eyes floated to Hasdrubal, and although he had asked him a question, it seemed to reply was more challenge than invitation.

Herod’s lips curled, a smile that lacked any hint of warmth, any trace of humanity. Tonight, our followers have gathered for a spectacle, a glimpse of divine favor. And I thought... why not give them exactly what they desire?

He drew closer, extending a massive paw to cradle Hasdrubal’s face in a mockery of gentleness. You’ve been working very hard to prove yourself, and I do recognize that. His voice softened, almost affectionate, before his grip tightened suddenly, claws grazing the dog’s flesh. But I hear whispers of you performing miracles—without my blessing. Why would you do that, hmm? The lion’s grip lingered a beat too long, cold and possessive, before he dropped his paw, resuming a slow circle around the boy. After your last little stunt, I have grown into a rather suspicious beast, I am afraid. So it occurred to me—why not give you one final chance to prove yourself?

He paused, and the silence was so thick he could almost imagine that if he strained his ears he could hear the boy's pounding heartbeat. Herod’s eyes were relentless, sharp as blades. The ceremony will begin when the moon is at its peak. Until then, my disciples will help you prepare.

And then, with a single dismissive motion, Herod turned, his back to Hasdrubal, the lion’s attention drifting elsewhere, as though the boy was already forgotten.

Outside, Machiavelli stumbled from the chamber, pausing only as his opal eyes traveled over those gathered. The courtyard was filled with Godsmouth's faithful, their eyes flickering with a feverish expectation. Men and women, children and elders alike, crowded close, gazes locked on him with a strange hunger. A shudder overcame him, a sick feeling rising from his stomach, and he quickly returned to his cave.

Where is Joanna? he asked, his voice hoarse, the words scraping out of his throat when a stranger entered his den instead. Preparing for the ceremony, Prophet, came the vague reply, and Machiavelli stared hard, turning the reply over in his head until he could understand.

Until he understood.

The shattered-glass eyes flicked to the tortoise-shell bowl hidden in the corner of the den. In that moment, he made a decision, though he felt detached from it, as if the choice was being made for him. A strange sense of peace washed over him as he turned to prepare himself, dusting his eyelids with a fine gold powder, smoothing down the tangled fur on his chest and face. Just as he thought to send away his attendants, a final adornment was brought forth—a collar, glittering under the reflected light in jeweled tones and gold filigree. The collar slipped around his neck, and he felt the cold press of metal against his skin, though his mind was far from the sensation, as though it sat on some stranger’s throat.

With each movement, each breath, he felt himself slip further, the world around him losing its grip, becoming something distant, strange with a peace that he had never before known. He picked up the tortoiseshell bowl, filled with a thick, crimson liquid that gave off a sweet, sickly scent. Turning, he placed it in the hands of a disciple with a quiet, hollow command. For the ceremony. Return it when I call for it.

He stepped outside, the sounds of the crowd swelling around him in waves, voices rising in chants that felt like the pulse of a great beast. The moonlight fell in bright, silvery patches across his coat as he moved down the petal-strewn path to the altar—a simple, rough slab of stone prepared for tonight’s offering. He walked as though in a trance, his mind eerily quiet, each step carrying him farther from any feeling.

Herod loomed by the altar, a formidable figure etched against the indigo sweep of the night sky, his presence a dark, imposing monolith. His cloak cascaded about him, a river of black that pooled at his feet like shadows made flesh, an extension of his very essence, as though the darkness itself obeyed him.

Brothers, sisters, his voice intoned, swelling over the gathered crowd with a resonance that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of their bones, captivating them in its haunting, inexorable cadence. The words unfurled like an incantation, each syllable rich and somber, weaving a spell of solemnity and fervor around those assembled. The air grew taut, heavy with anticipation, as if even the stars above held their breath to bear witness.

Tomorrow, we march to Godsmouth, Herod continued, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, each lifted in reverence, awaiting his command as he spoke from on high. Tonight, we stand here as one, united by purpose, bound by blood, to call upon the gods themselves—to ask their protection, their power, their favor. For it is only with their blessing that we shall find the strength to overcome, the wisdom to prevail, and the fire to carve our destiny.

A hush settled over the assembly, a reverent silence as Herod’s eyes glinted with dark fire. He extended his paw toward the crowd, a commanding hand that held both promise and threat. And with the help of our Prophet, we shall gain their favor, he declared, his words vibrating with a fervent authority that left no room for doubt, for fear.

Joanna—come forth, my daughter, he called, his voice tender. In the tense silence, the crowd parted, all eyes following the path of the chosen one as she stepped forward, her form haloed by moonlight, her face radiant with the honor of her calling. She moved with ethereal grace, her footsteps steady as if guided by an unseen force, every inch of her a vessel prepared for divine purpose.

Machiavelli’s gaze tracked Joanna’s approach, his heart beating in a slow, muffled rhythm—distant, almost as if submerged beneath a heavy sea.

She looked ethereal, gliding toward him draped in flowers and flora that caught the moonlight in silver ripples, casting a faint glow around her form. Her face was serene, eyes closed in quiet reverie, each step imbued with a grace so effortless it seemed to belong to another world. She was smiling, soft and steady, and that faint curve in her lips tugged at something deep within him—a sharp ache in his chest, but even that was dulled, something he could only barely recognize as sorrow.

The gods watch over us now, Herod continued, his voice rising, filling the air with a strange, reverent power. Into their arms we commend this loyal soul, who will safeguard our journey. And in return for her sacrifice, she will be granted eternal paradise.

Joanna’s eyes opened, her gaze warm and unwavering, her voice soft and certain as she whispered, For the Gods, for the path we walk together.

Machiavelli felt only detachment as he stepped forward, movements steady, his ivory face a mask of detached calm. Any remnants of fear or disgust had been washed away, replaced by something colder, sharper. He felt nothing now but a steady loathing, a raging, unignorable hatred for Herod that consumed all else.

Bring the wine, he commanded, his voice low and unfeeling, shattered-glass eyes blank as he looked out over the gathered followers. The disciples brought the bowl, and he took it, lifting it high, his paws steady and expression calm—devoid of any trace of life.

We offer our sister one final drink before she departs. A toast in her honor.

Herod stilled, his imposing frame rigid as his brows drew together in displeasure at the unexpected interruption. A shadow of suspicion clouded his gaze, and his golden eyes sharpened, watching the boy with a wariness that crept into every taut muscle.

As Hasdrubal poured the wine into individual bowls, Herod’s gaze narrowed, glinting with an acute scrutiny. What could be the meaning of this gesture? An attempt to stall? His piercing eyes flicked toward the edge of the treeline, their keen gaze scouring the shadows before drifting back to the boy. But, no… that could not be the answer. There was no one for him to wait for—no hidden ally among the darkened boughs.

Could it be poison, then? Herod's paws tightened ever so slightly, a hint of tension in his stance. But even that thought fell away as he assessed the scene with the cold clarity of a seasoned mind. The wine, after all, had been poured from a single vessel, one which he himself had supervised. Hasdrubal may have no qualms against killing Joanna, but he would never bear the thought of harm coming to himself. That would be the one line he dared not cross.

And yet… Herod would take no chances. His keen gaze bore into the boy’s, unyielding and commanding, waiting, demanding proof of loyalty, of obedience—or perhaps, of betrayal. With a faintly imperious tilt of his head, he settled back, his silence a command of its own.

He would wait, then, for the boy to lift the glass to his own lips, to taste first of the offering.

He had expected his heart to race, his paws to tremble as he clinked the cups together. The liquid within sloshed, a dark stain spilling over the rim, splattering onto the ground in droplets that gleamed like scattered rubies under the dim torchlight. He raised the bowl high, its weight pressing into his palms, and his voice, though low, cut through the silence:

To Godsmouth.

With a final, steady breath, he lowered it to his lips.

She had fallen asleep thinking of it; had awoken with it. Guilt.

In part it is why she presses on, too willful to release the scent where it leads her creeping along the edge of pestilence, smell wafting in sheaves up towards a toothed moon and the single body silhouetted against it. Below, those of the gully assemble. She stiffens with fear.

This is a soldier’s raid. Eset had never meant to come this far. Now that she had, she understood there was no turning back. He would not survive it, she knew. Her paws still felt the thickened skin on his neck; the poreless, furless marks across his ribs.

Hathor, go to him, her heart pleads, please, keep him strong.

Long shadows flicker over the trail down the cliff face, the rustling of her pawsteps eased by fleet movements. The gathering glows ahead, their voices distinct through the trees. Eset marshals forward, keeping a careful distance while her eyes throng grievously over bodies, searching for the piebald coat.

Then she senses him. The barest voice, just at the limit of hearing, but she catches it. She strains to listen, fear jumping in her throat. Where had it come from? Her eyes track the figures; the woods. She dares not move in the viper’s pit. Her jaw clenches as she tries to still all breath, all movement, to give nothing away…

And then he is there– emaciated, but very much alive among the crowds.

There is no time to study the soldiers’ configuration or plot an escape; in the same moment Machiavelli holds a substance to his lips, Eset streaks through the underbrush with a coyote’s haunting cry, “Stop!”

Her paw catches on the edge of his bowl, spilling the liquid out into the dirt around their legs.

“You are under no obligation to drink that, Machi,” the wildfire eyes flare over his hollowed face for only a second before turning in horror to the surrounding wolves.

One forearm steps shakily forward, barring him pathetically. They are frightened dogs, backed small and sharp into a corner, and with no means of escape. Eset forces a swallow, and in the dread arms herself the only way she knew how; with the same pretenses that had once numbed all terrors.

“W- where is your leader?" She addresses the masses, unable to hide the waver in her voice but still fighting for a vizard's importance, "I must speak with Herod.”

Herod’s gaze turned cold as stone the moment he saw the woman rush forward, spilling the sacrament with a call as shrill as a hawk’s cry. An interruption, a brazen assault upon his ritual, and for what? To protect the Prophet? Herod’s teeth set in a thin line as he watched the stranger—a brazen, reckless creature—step between his assembly and Hasdrubal with a fire he had seldom seen. Her presence struck a dissonant chord, sparking unease in the assembly; even his most stalwart followers flinched, their eyes darting to him, to her, and back again. Fury simmered in his chest, yet he held it back, tempered by a grim curiosity.

Who was this woman, and by what delusion did she think herself capable of such insolence?

He placed down the wine, bowl clicking against stone with a clink, a slow chuckle escaping him. With nothing more than a languid tilt of his head, soldiers were upon her, pressing her into the earth.

He took his time, allowing the silence to swell around them, to seep into her heart, so she might feel the weight of his presence, the finality of his authority. Then at last, when he deemed the pause great enough, he looked down, his piercing gaze studying her with an intensity that could strip flesh from bone.

You call for me, little cowbird, he began, his voice a low murmur, smooth and unhurried, yet each syllable carrying a weight that pressed upon the air. Yet I do not recall granting you the right to wander into our domain, nor the privilege to disrupt matters of which you cannot begin to fathom.

He cast a glance at the Prophet, his expression darkening as he took in the boy’s expression with a sneer of disdain. Slowly, he kneeled, extending a clawed, silvered paw, hooking it under her chin to lift her face so that her eyes were forced to meet his.

You presume to shield my own from me, yet you stand here, lost and trembling, without even a name. He released her from his grip, rising to his full height, and wiping his paw clean with a scoff.

Pray tell, how do you come to know our esteemed Prophet? His lips curled, awaiting an answer, for this revelation might very well be the sole reason she still drew breath in his presence.

No sooner did the brew touch his tongue with a boiling acridity that stung and blazed was there a cry from the assembly.

Funeral pyre, blazing bright in the crowd.

Scarlet dripped down his chin as he spluttered and choked, paws losing their grip as the bowl clattered to the earth, its contents spilling down the rock.

The sight of her ignited something within him, something raw and terrible. The spell that had numbed him only moments before shattered, and every nerve in his body jolted alive, vibrating with the cold prickle of panic. His gaze shot to Eset, watching in horrified disbelief as she spoke, her voice clear and fierce.

Fuck.

He lowered his cup, stepping closer to Herod, whose hawkish gaze watched with that familiar chill. Machiavelli’s eyes trailed over the woman coldly, voice soft as down, Know me? he scoffed. The dog leaned close, resting a paw on Herod’s, lips curling in a faint sneer. She did not even address me properly.

Tick, tick, tick.

Clearly, she’s mistaken me for someone else. He furrowed a brow, one corner of his lip rising. One can only imagine what fantasies led her here. But the fact that she knows your name, dear Abbot… Well, that is intriguing, isn’t it?

His pale, fractured eyes held hers.

Perhaps, for the safety of our gathered faithful, he murmured with a tone of mild irritation, we should move her elsewhere. It would seem… his lips curled as he surveyed the spilled wine and disrupted ritual, …that the gods have chosen to forestall tonight’s ceremony.

There are claws to her throat, breaths low in her ear. Eset does what she’s told and stills, the freight of feet fixing her to the rough floor. For a second her eyes hold Machiavelli and panic runs down into her lungs. Stars turn and somewhere above the moon creeps across the sky, illuminating the approach of Herod, pale as bone. His owl eyes are starkly luminous upon her’s. She stifles a flinch.

“He is your Prophet– but he is Pharaoh’s slave, and her army comes now to collect him.”

She dares not look again to Machiavelli, fearing it would break their rouse.

A glacial stare was directed at Hasdrubal, the Abbot retreating from the boy with a brow that raised further, an ember of vexation kindling within his chest. The tension in the air thickened, poised to erupt, and at last, he could contain himself no longer. A thunderous laugh escaped his lips, reverberating throughout the basin and echoing ominously against the stone walls.

An army sent to collect a mere slave? Oh, my, my, my! he chided, his voice dripping like honey as he shook his head, a serpent coiling in delight. Is Pharaoh so desperate to preserve his menial help? So utterly threatened by the loss of one servant? Another bark of laughter escaped his lips, and the assembly around him, sensing the shift in atmosphere, joined in his mirth, their relief palpable as they echoed his mockery. Why, it is nearly beyond belief, is it not? A pity that such a proud lord would stoop so low!

Herod turned his gaze upon the woman, his head cocked to one side, an expression of twisted amusement etched upon his features. She was nearly comical.

Alas, I must express my reluctance to permit our esteemed Prophet to be dragged back into the chains from whence we valiantly rescued him, he declared, turning to cast his voice to the assembled throng, who leaned forward, caught up in the cadence of his words. We shall keep him safe, keep him free, keep him home! The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, their alacrity rising to a fever pitch, a tide of fervent loyalty that only stoked the flames of the lion's arrogance.

With a complacent grin, Herod’s gaze returned to the woman, triumph etched across his features.

Bring rope. We shall leave her for the army to collect.

As Herod’s laughter slithered through the chamber, echoed by the thrumming chorus of the crowd, Machiavelli’s pulse hammered a warning in his ears—a cold, sharp fear he could not suppress. But if fear must show, he would let it glint in his eyes as a weapon, not a weakness.

Perhaps she speaks truth, my Abbot, he murmured, locking Herod in an unblinking gaze.

Pharaoh might indeed dispatch an army over one mere servant if he believes that servant stolen. Leaders, when slighted, are notorious for extravagant measures, he mused, casting a vague gesture into the shadows around them. And further still, when one is threatened by forces beyond their comprehension, they are inclined to overcompensate. Uncertainty has a way of breeding spectacle, even in the mightiest.

The gathering around them grew hushed, stirred by the quiet conviction in his tone. Leaning further, he let his gaze settle on Herod, pale eyes glittering with disdain. Surely you’ve heard the tales of Akashingo’s Pharaoh, he murmured, the words steeped in grim implication. Such a force is not one to provoke lightly, not if we value our people, our families—none of whom are soldiers fit for such a struggle.

The crowd’s eyes flickered between Herod and the Prophet, the earlier mockery now replaced with a ripple of uncertainty.

So, if an army truly looms on the horizon, why waste vines upon her—a mere messenger? Binding her would serve only as an insult, an affront Pharaoh would take as a challenge. A wiser ruler would avoid open war if given even the slightest chance. Ask yourself—why send her unarmed, without so much as a single guard, if not to open dialogue? She was sent to offer terms, I wager, he continued, his voice calm yet tinged with the gravity of consequence.

Let us take her aside, away from eager eyes, and grant her the courtesy of an audience—if only to demonstrate our diplomacy and mercy, he said, his voice a balm over the charged air. Machiavelli again placed a steady paw atop Herod’s, eyes begging him to see reason. There can be no harm in entertaining her words, surely, as your Prophet has long made his choice. There is no mystery in that.

The stares of pittless eyes pressed in. The shadows of soldiers lurch over her. She almost doesn’t hear the words exchanged as they stretch around the racing pulse of her heart.

Eset focuses on the ground against her palms, on staying calm and quiet. Once, Machiavelli had set aside his fears to trust her. Now she must do the same.

Because Pharaoh’s army wasn’t coming.

She rips her eyes up, forcing them silently onto the predator.

Herod’s amusement drained away as he listened to the Prophet speak, each word heavy with veiled warnings. The lion's eyes narrowed, flicking between the woman and Hasdrubal, while a profound sense of affront simmered beneath the surface—bruised by the mere suggestion of yielding to the phantom pressure of an outside force. His thin patience was now balanced on the edge of a knife, held taut by the boy’s defiance. How galling it was for his Prophet, his own chosen voice among this rabble, to dare question him in this moment of victory.

Yet, in the crowd, he sensed it: the subtle but unmistakable tremor of unease. Doubt, in this place, among his faithful. A faint murmur, hushed yet telling, seeped into the silence. Herod’s nostrils flared, and after a pause he forced himself to smile, a concession to the crowd. He inclined his head ever so slightly, flicking a paw as if swatting away a gnat.

Very well, he purred, his voice sliding into a low, dangerous timbre that promised ruin. Since our beloved Prophet finds himself suddenly enamored with mercy, I shall indulge this plea. He moved forward, his shadow casting long and sinister over Eset as he leaned down, his voice barely more than a rumbling whisper. You shall be afforded an audience, half-breed. Let us see if your purpose proves worthy of our time.

Then, with the thunderous grace of a sovereign, he parted the crowd, moving through them as though Moses through the Red Sea, until he reached his chamber. There, he seated himself, his cloak settling behind him with an ominous swish, a storm cloud gathering in his wake.

Release our… guest, he ordered, flicking his paw in a dismissive wave. His gaze remained fixed on the Prophet. Climb to the vantage point. We shall see how long we have until this Pharaoh’s supposed army dares to encroach upon my dominion.

He waited, his hawk-like stare unbroken as the guards complied. His gaze weighed upon the woman, studying her with a glint of thinly veiled suspicion, digits tapping a measured beat against the stone. She did not carry herself with the bearing of a mere messenger.

When they were alone, he regarded the Prophet coldly, a gleam of dark amusement curving his lips. Very well, Prophet, he murmured, voice dripping with sinister elegance. If you insist upon hearing her speak terms, then let us indulge her… if only to savor the spectacle.

His gaze fixed upon the cowbird like a serpent coiling around prey. Speak, if you must, if only because our Prophet has granted you this brief reprieve. But mark my words, boy, he added, his eyes narrowing on Hasdrubal once more, his voice a menacing murmur, I tire of these games, and you grow far too comfortable with your place in my favor. You presume upon it, as if you believe yourself irreplaceable.

Should this creature speak in riddles or lies… well, I shall heed your advice, Prophet, and deny her the mercy of an army’s rescue. She will pay for her sacrilege and serve as our next sacrifice.

They weren’t dead—yet. A blessing, Machiavelli mused, as they wove through the crowd's thrumming tension, its anticipation swirling like incense. Joanna’s trembling grip lost the bowl to the Prophet’s waiting paws, and he moved to Herod's side, heart thundering beneath a veneer of dutiful submission. Every instinct sharpened; there could be no misstep here.

He inclined his head, voice sliding low, deferential. I ask your forgiveness, Abbot, he replied, his shattered-glass eyes cast down, unyielding in their reverence as he dipped a dove-white paw into the mixture. The movement was fluid, conscious, each motion echoing the humility he dared not abandon. Your mercy is as boundless as ever, a generosity which humbles us all.

Pausing, he let the words weigh upon the air. He placed the cup down with a lingering touch, his soaked paw leaving crimson splotches on the cold stone, then lifted his head, gaze alight with resentment as he took a single, purposeful step toward Eset. If I may impose upon your goodwill once more, he ventured, letting his voice harden with the fury that had been left to build for months.

I would not say as much before our flock, but was not mercy that tempered my heart, Abbot. Machiavelli admitted quietly, eyes fixed upon the Hebsut. This woman— his gaze bore into her, a smoldering ember of loathing kindling within his eyes—she is a creature of Pharaoh, the very hand that once shackled me in servitude, the one who condemned me to months of confinement. The words dripped with bitterness, each syllable seething with contempt. And of impure blood, no less. Hardly worthy of our reverence and certainly undeserving of the glory of sacrifice.

He let his lips curl, disdain steeped in every word. Yet I understand the necessity of setting an example, Abbot, so, if it would please you, I beseech you—grant her to me. Let us take her home as our own—a pet, a creature to be tamed. Let her suffer as I have suffered. His voice dripped with dark intention.

Without waiting, he surged forward, heart pounding, teeth bared as he seized her by the scruff, hoisting her upright, forcing her paws to find purchase against the cold ground.

I beg your permission, my Abbot, he murmured, his gaze lifting to meet Herod’s. Allow me to begin… now.

Wrenched upright, a stabbing pain to her neck that wrests from her mouth the warbling screams of her kind. Her kind; that cannot do what she wants, because everything about it worked against her.

“You betrayed me!” Fierce tears flood her cheeks, and she thinks of so many faces, and the faces of those she has not yet met, disclosed by stars and a numbness in her spine.

“Machi! Please!” She scores against him aimlessly, smashing her claws to his legs with the effect of sharpened tree branches– resistance which may very well cost her life.

tw for disgusting man

The lion observed the unfolding scene, his offense melting away once again into sick amusement as Hasdrubal set his teeth upon the screaming woman.

Ah, he drawled. So there is a trace of masculinity within you, after all, boy. I never dreamed you of all beasts would ask me for a woman. He laughed heartily, settling back in his seat, a paw idly resting beneath his chin.

Very well, you have my leave, he continued, his gaze flicking toward Eset with a glint of malicious anticipation. Let us see, then, what other sounds our visitor might make.

Eset’s paws found his wounded leg, and a sharp hiss slipped through Machiavelli’s clenched teeth, a raw curse laced in the sound. Now, of all times, she chose to rebrand herself a soldier, and he barely stifled a snarl of frustration. His jaws latched onto her scruff once more, a punishing grip meant to wrench him from the arc of her strikes. With a calculated, forceful twist, he maneuvered himself behind her, pinning her with a relentless grip pressed to the vulnerable line of her neck—a silent, potent warning: stop.

The pink of his nose brushed against the silken wisp of her fur near her ear, a low, clicking growl rumbling in his throat. He leaned close, his breath a cold, shivering threat, as his milky eyes flicked up to lock onto Herod’s.

Slowly, he raised his other paw, slick with the crimson mixture that traced languid trails down his forearm. The color pooled at his elbow, dripping to the stone below in dark, rhythmic drops.

Run

And he lunged, descending upon the hawkish eyes.

Screams are cut by the confrontation of teeth as Machi surges, body entangling with the old feline’s musculature. This is a different terror. Eset's limbs leaden, watching helplessly as daggered fangs prick the skin of Machi’s throat. She knows no way to stop this, her cries are twisting clots in the mouth, a guttural mix of panic and shame.

There are only a matter of moments before the struggle is heard by the awaiting soldiers.

Several seconds pass. She allows fear to control her, shaking her limbs, occluding her voice. Then Eset divests it, rolling to her paws. Her heart riots. She flies forward, striking at the softened undersides of Herod’s flank. Her teeth were ineffectual against the wolf. She hoped only to buy time, to distract long enough for Machi deal his critical bites.

She prayed the gods were mercy clothed in darkness.

Mature Content Warning

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The lion was thrown onto his back, searing hot pain ricocheting through him as the boy's claws cut through his face. This was no ordinary pain, but a scalding, bubbling agony that froze Herod in place, clutching his eye.

Traitor! he roared, pulling Hasdrubal's head into range of his teeth, intent on crushing the pretty face between his jaws. You will both die for this!

But he was stopped, only by the woman descending upon him with viper's bites to the vulnerable flesh along his stomach, weak, but enough to cause the elder to recoil and lose his grip on the boy.

It was then, for the first time since he had ripped the Snow-boy's head from his shoulders, that fear entered into the lion's heart.

Ransem was not here to save him.

He redirected his teeth to Hasdrubal's broken leg, releasing his grip only when he heard the weakened bone crunch. Then, a kick to the woman's chest to send her back.

He staggered to his paws.

And ran.

A strangled scream tore from his throat as pain surged through his mangled leg, but Machiavelli’s response was immediate, a violent instinct honed by desperation and rage. With a savage lunge, he sank his teeth into Herod’s own leg, wrenching him back to the ground. Their bodies tangled in a fierce, thrashing struggle, his hold relentless, sinew and will bound together as one.

Escape was never an option.

Through the chaos, a forepaw groped across the stone floor, feeling for the bowl, slick with spilled wine. His touch found the cool rim, paw tightening around it with purpose. With a snarl, he aimed to pry Herod's jaws apart, to force that bitter, consecrated draught down his throat—a final offering.

Tossed aside, her mind shatters in shards and slivers. Herod’s cries lament over the half-breeds snarls, and all the coy can do is watch the smooth red liquid spill onto the dirt.

She hated the way her body froze. Paralyzed, braced for a stranger's pressure and weight. She could not bend it to submission, even when her mind knew better. Her body played old tricks.

She hadn’t been made for this life of violence. Eset licks her lips and tastes blood on them.

“Machi!” She shrieks. They’d done it! They survived! Herod was frightened, he was running, they must go– now!

But even with such a clear intentions, she could not– would not deny him this kill.

End him, she thinks from the floor, tethered they were by hope and belief in one another.