we'll save this earth, but into jars

Max Klein · 09-07-2012, 04:20 PM

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Almost before she had asked him the second question the cur was moving, plucking the jar from its home and sliding it onto the table. He maneuvered around Asher, using his hands to actually position the boy aside, and drew four wooden cups from a cabinet without a door. These he passed to the younger dog, and motioned for him to sit. “It be bad manners not to,” Rémy explained, and drifted back towards his stew.

Max, who had been one of test subjects of the Cajun’s witches brew, eyed it cautiously. His stomach rumbled at the rising smell of warm food, which was spicy, meaty, and heavy with iron. One of the marvels of Rémy’s cooking was the way in which he prepared things. He had told Max a thousand times over he longed for a pig, finding that the lean meat of deer was hardly comparable to what he could find in the south. Still, by incorporating the animal’s blood (and this process was a long-standing tradition, as Max had heard it explained) even a feral, anti-cooked meal canine might give into such a meal.

“Is this that batch from before?” Max asked, and spared a glance to the older dog.

“Sometin’ close; I still need t’fine a few tings to make it sing, but dis ‘ere is a fine bit o’shine.”

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