12-12-2007, 05:15 PM
[html]The black boy lifted his head, coming face to face with a coyote. Mom had always said bad things about coyotes; seems she'd nbever met a nice one. Matter of fact, there were no nice ones as far as the boy was concerned. At nine months, he had the brash impetousity of youth, and an insolent swagger to match. He puffed up his chest, his blazing blue eyes cold. I ain't a'scart of you, the boy drawled in a perfect imitation of the accent he'd only heard once or twice, the slow southern drawl that he liked.
The boy had all the arrogance of his father, his birth father, and none of his mother's wisdom. he cocked a brow, his mouth pursed in an arrogant smirk. he was no shifter, though both partns were. he'd never learned what could be done in that form, and wouldn't have time now. he chuckled softly. Why should I be scared of a mangy, fleabitten coyote? Instead of running from the demon with the red eyes, he stepped closer as if daring the older male to do something.
Credit to Misery! [/html]