Private. Late morning/early afternoon. Word Count »
There was a meditation in this work. His mind fell into cycles of repetition, his hands working in the way that they had been trained to do. Roots were harder to grind then the leaves or flowers of plants, but he was used to the slight difference and strong enough to do so with ease. The jackal moved his wrist in circular motions, crushing the root with a thick and smooth stone shaped for his hand. It had taken time to find one that would fit, and it did so snugly against his palm.
So focused was he that the obvious creak of the steps was missed. He looked up at the door at the knock, large ears rising to a high and dark crown amongst dark lengths of hair. Sharp lines drew themselves around his face, but the tension fell at the familiar voice. “Enter,” he called, though his voice hardly rose about its normal tone. There was rarely a time one could hear him yell, for despite his blood, the severe control he carried was endless. On his lap, the kitten mewled in protest and earned a glance from the man, though he remained still as to not disturb her (or those prickling, little claws) further.
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