02-27-2009, 12:56 PM
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The fire, as many things would come to be, was a dim memory. Ezekiel could remember the smell of smoke and ash, and remembered his mother’s body and voice reassuring them. He remembered heat and bright light, and an endless chorus of howls as the wolves had attempted to find one another. After that he knew nothing—only that they had a new home, one with many places to play and explore and a beach similar to the one they had lived on before.
Likewise, he did not remember the war. His father and godmother had come one day, and explained he would be taking a trip with her. Ezekiel was thrilled, right up until he realized his father was not coming and he was to be separated from his family. The first few days had been miserable, even though Fatin did her best to keep his spirits up. They had found Tristan (or rather, he had found them) a week before his mother and sister caught up to them. For a while, things were good—then Talitha left, and his mother followed. Both his godmother and uncle-figure had advised he remain with them. He had, and he had formed remarkable bonds with both, and still honored these things.
That was why he recognized the woman for what she was. Tristan had never spoken about his past, but instead the strange folk he had encounter during these times. The painted-folk, whom were known by many names, and oft highly renown warriors. While Tristan had seemed less then fond of what he called woads, Fatin had made a point to remind Ezekiel to keep an open mind.
So he did, approaching the woman at an easy pace, young frame not yet full-grown and very coyote-like. Had his body not shown the potential to gain more mass, his mixed blood would be nearly impossible to see. “Those are some interesting markings,” he commented, stopping just close enough to speak while remaining a comfortable distance away.
The fire, as many things would come to be, was a dim memory. Ezekiel could remember the smell of smoke and ash, and remembered his mother’s body and voice reassuring them. He remembered heat and bright light, and an endless chorus of howls as the wolves had attempted to find one another. After that he knew nothing—only that they had a new home, one with many places to play and explore and a beach similar to the one they had lived on before.
Likewise, he did not remember the war. His father and godmother had come one day, and explained he would be taking a trip with her. Ezekiel was thrilled, right up until he realized his father was not coming and he was to be separated from his family. The first few days had been miserable, even though Fatin did her best to keep his spirits up. They had found Tristan (or rather, he had found them) a week before his mother and sister caught up to them. For a while, things were good—then Talitha left, and his mother followed. Both his godmother and uncle-figure had advised he remain with them. He had, and he had formed remarkable bonds with both, and still honored these things.
That was why he recognized the woman for what she was. Tristan had never spoken about his past, but instead the strange folk he had encounter during these times. The painted-folk, whom were known by many names, and oft highly renown warriors. While Tristan had seemed less then fond of what he called woads, Fatin had made a point to remind Ezekiel to keep an open mind.
So he did, approaching the woman at an easy pace, young frame not yet full-grown and very coyote-like. Had his body not shown the potential to gain more mass, his mixed blood would be nearly impossible to see. “Those are some interesting markings,” he commented, stopping just close enough to speak while remaining a comfortable distance away.