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Machidael is by me!
Cruelty was a way of life in Machidael. Although the raider clan had tried to instill some sense of morality and righteousness in him, he balked them. His mother had taught him he was the embodiment of a god, so why did he need to respect the laws of Luperci? He ran with them and kept to their ways for a time, out of necessity perhaps -- or because the pickings were good. But he did not absorb their lessons, and when he realized the repercussions for breaking their laws were few, the rust-hued hybrid had taken advantage of it. He had done so with more vigor when he realized the usefulness in inciting his fellow canines to their own rebellions, and soon he'd been far from the only one. It became more difficult to punish the more of his unhappy fellows he roped into dissent.
Now, there was nothing to temper his inhibitions, with he followed with the rigidity found in some of the most stoutly religious. Just now his inclination was to tempt more crows, so he tore pieces from his kill and flung them forward. Closer and closer to the corpse they were, sure to draw the hungry birds close. Perhaps this time, rather than punching, he'd use his dagger. A plethora of black feathers to decorate his dyed-dark hair might serve him well. Machidael had never been one for feather decorations -- perhaps because birds were difficult to capture in his homeland without certain ranged weapons. His spear was not suited for such tasks, ranged weapon as it was -- he'd learned that upon destroying a hawk or two. Only the largest birds could withstand the long spear, and those were rarely encountered anyway.
He was watching for the crows when another noise drew his head around. It was a pale canine, and at first Machidael thought it was a wolf. He reared up a little bit, setting a hand protectively on his kill. He scrutinized her, and as his crimson eyes came to her face, he realized she bore the same features he now recognized to be coyote. They were more similar to the jackal than the wolf, though the differences there, too, were stark. Her color still threw him, for he'd only encountered coyotes of brownish and tawny coloration, as with the idiot in Halifax and Sebante. Machi had never seen an albino before, and therefore did not recognize his first.
What want? he asked, reverting to English. He knew this to be the tongue of this land, though he loathed to speak it. It was so much more difficult to express himself in English. At least in his mother tongue, he stood some chance of being understood -- though he was coming to suspect many canines of this land simply had little to say. If they were all addle-brained as the brownish coyote in the city, he could hope to live a long, lovely life interacting with morons. He might not even bother to try and learn their tongue more completely. Sebante's rudimentary education was already half-forgotten, the more obscure and rarely-used words -- along with tenses and all sense of grammar -- had flown out of his head. As the most extensive conversation he'd engaged thus far had been with Amaury, the heavy-accented African dog, he had little hope of picking up the words by observation and listening.
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