there is a sickness in the roses

Ezekiel de le Poer · 08-25-2011, 02:00 AM

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As two canines, and men at that, it was not unnatural for them to feel the constant rise of conflict between them. Heredity and instinct made them this way, competitive for land, for dominance. If they had shared a home, they would have come to blows. Blood would be drawn, and one of them would be defeated by the other. Separation meant they could withstand the static that grew between every brushed hair, every step that caused Ezekiel’s nose and mouth to fill with the heavy musk of Sirius’ dark body.

Sirius’ pace was met with one forged through the forest, a wolfish thing that was swift and well-placed. Ezekiel had spent so long carving out a living in this manner that it showed in every movement; he was a true ranger, raised by the wilderness. This was what allowed him to move so easily up and across the rocky face in a way that his charger could not. Yet his body was different than Sirius own; they were warped reflections still.

The admission of ignorance drew no arrogant smile to Ezekiel’s face. He was young, yes, but he had no desire to push the Hunter away. They, for the time being, needed each other. Two sets of eyes and ears would best keep them hidden from any patrols. “They mark it with stones,” the Aquila said, recalling what Ibsen had seen. “We should keep north; I don’t believe they have much in the way of patrols—it’s too soon, for them to be so settled.” With that, Ezekiel took the lead. His red feet moved across the rocks without pain. The pads had long since formed into thick, leathery things that could withstand the sharp beaches of Inferni’s coast. He paused, here and there, to scent the air. Occasional glances to the sky were made, as if by thought alone he might summon his scount.

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