(--)
Ithiel is by me!
There were creaks and groans within the mansion, evidence of someone's wakeful state and presence. The dusky-furred hybrid hybrid cocked an ear to listen, and found he could not determine who it was moving about. Some he could identify by noise of footfall alone -- Myrika was one such, and his grandmother another. The latter was identifiable only because of her step's uniqueness: dragging ever so slightly, a slow and shuffling sort of walk indicative of the woman's age.
The noises grew louder, and before long, Ithiel found Ángel amongst the quiet shelves of the library. The man greeted Ithiel in a strange tongue, to which the hybrid bobbed his head, assuming it was some kind of greeting. Yes, he agreed. No good for the books, no good for the wood, and no good for coyotes. The summer's swelter was well and truly upon them, though Ithiel was not one to complain about it overmuch.
The dust-furred hybrid nodded to the volume in the darker coyote's hand, red eyes flickering over the title. He could not read it. What's that? he inquired, mildly interested.
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