02-03-2011, 06:56 PM
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As a note, Ezekiel is speaking Low-Speech during this thread. +3
The coyote crouched low, his body made up of sinew and well-trained muscles. In his hand the bow fit naturally, as if he had been born with such a thing. His fingers touched the fletching of his arrow, a bright red stolen from birds killed in the north, and he rested the point over his finger. Ezekiel’s bright fur would have betrayed him on a sunny day, but clouds had rolled in and obscured the sun. Thankful for this, he had waited and stalked the deer for hours. Now, as the young buck lifted his head to try and reach for his meal, the coyote saw his chance and took it.
A bolt of pale wood and red feathers shot through the air, striking deep into the chest of the deer. It bleated once, turned to run, and fell. Ezekiel rose quickly, moving through the snow as if this too, was natural. Compared to the harsh weather he had endured in the west, this felt like nothing. He knelt and yanked the arrow out with a low-murmured thanks, as he had been taught by the natives.
He cleaned the arrow in the snow before cutting into his meal. Ezekiel used a primitive knife to slice the belly open, hacking away the pieces he wished for himself. The heart he left, intending to bury. As he finished eating the liver, a familiar shadow passed overhead. Marlowe swooped low and landed on the buck’s antlers, cawing loudly in low-speech. “My, aren’t you the astute hunter.” A smile brushed over Ezekiel’s face, though his eyes gleamed impishly. “And thus came the noble scavenger. You move fast, brother.”
The raven laughed, cocking his head. “And you speak much better. Something you learned on your journey, I suppose?” Zeke tossed him a section of meat, beginning to cut apart the pieces he wished to save. “Among other things. I found a book in Toronto that had your name on it.”
“Ah,” the bird swallowed, his eyes gleaming. “The man whose name I made my own, yes. Which tale was it?”
“Faustus. I brought it for you.”
The presented article was a small paperback, worn but otherwise cared for. Marlowe hopped onto the boy’s shoulder to examine the prize. “Remarkable.” The boy laughed loudly. “Remarkable? Says the raven that taught himself to read and to speak the language of canines?” Though the bird did not reply to this, he ruffled his feather’s proudly. Ezekiel shook his head and lowered the book onto his bag, motioning for the raven to sit on the pile of things as he turned back to the deer.
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The coyote crouched low, his body made up of sinew and well-trained muscles. In his hand the bow fit naturally, as if he had been born with such a thing. His fingers touched the fletching of his arrow, a bright red stolen from birds killed in the north, and he rested the point over his finger. Ezekiel’s bright fur would have betrayed him on a sunny day, but clouds had rolled in and obscured the sun. Thankful for this, he had waited and stalked the deer for hours. Now, as the young buck lifted his head to try and reach for his meal, the coyote saw his chance and took it.
A bolt of pale wood and red feathers shot through the air, striking deep into the chest of the deer. It bleated once, turned to run, and fell. Ezekiel rose quickly, moving through the snow as if this too, was natural. Compared to the harsh weather he had endured in the west, this felt like nothing. He knelt and yanked the arrow out with a low-murmured thanks, as he had been taught by the natives.
He cleaned the arrow in the snow before cutting into his meal. Ezekiel used a primitive knife to slice the belly open, hacking away the pieces he wished for himself. The heart he left, intending to bury. As he finished eating the liver, a familiar shadow passed overhead. Marlowe swooped low and landed on the buck’s antlers, cawing loudly in low-speech. “My, aren’t you the astute hunter.” A smile brushed over Ezekiel’s face, though his eyes gleamed impishly. “And thus came the noble scavenger. You move fast, brother.”
The raven laughed, cocking his head. “And you speak much better. Something you learned on your journey, I suppose?” Zeke tossed him a section of meat, beginning to cut apart the pieces he wished to save. “Among other things. I found a book in Toronto that had your name on it.”
“Ah,” the bird swallowed, his eyes gleaming. “The man whose name I made my own, yes. Which tale was it?”
“Faustus. I brought it for you.”
The presented article was a small paperback, worn but otherwise cared for. Marlowe hopped onto the boy’s shoulder to examine the prize. “Remarkable.” The boy laughed loudly. “Remarkable? Says the raven that taught himself to read and to speak the language of canines?” Though the bird did not reply to this, he ruffled his feather’s proudly. Ezekiel shook his head and lowered the book onto his bag, motioning for the raven to sit on the pile of things as he turned back to the deer.