Form	Info Time: Sunset Words: 686
Great Village

(--)
Mel was saying she wanted thread with Myrika, but I didn't clear it with her before starting this, so it's marked attention and not private for her. c; I'd like to give Mel a few days to reply before opening this up to everyone else, so after 5 November this will be all welcome-like. c:

The hybrid had been working for weeks now. There was much to be done: first, she had hunted, stalking through the forests of the Dampwoods in search of deer. They were the necessary prey for this task: their skins would provide the parchment for her to record the history of the clan. She had estimated four were necessary for this task, but she had taken five in almost as many days. It was more meat than she could ever use, and so, she had traded it off to a stranger she'd encountered in the Dampwoods. Meat wasn't particularly good trading fare, of course, and so she'd been lucky to get what she had: a small bit of quartz, which was really and truly useless to her, and a few nails. At least the nails could be used for this project: she'd used them to stretch a skin after soaking them.

For a few days, the hallway of her schoolhouse -- devoid of company and emptied of anything useful to her -- was filled with frames. She'd constructed those before anything else, constructing them of sturdy saplings she'd stripped of branch and leaf. Then, the real labor began: she'd scraped each of them down to fine quality, adjusting her cords and fixing the stretch as she went. Often, she worked late into the night, going so far as to light a fire just outside of the schoolhouse doors. She had never been one to suffer from nyctophobia, but of course, one needed light to see. Sandstone procured from Hades Beach had served to refine the hides even further. They were nearly translucent when she dampened them, but they would harden and serve as a lasting reminder of the clan's history, no doubt.

Cutting and shaping the hides had been easy work, and Myrika already had leather and sinew suitable for the binding. The book did smell faintly of old rot, but the coyote hybrid had included bayberry in the soaking water, and she'd worked it into the drying skins, too. This left the parchment pieces with a faintly purple tinge, but Myrika thought that was better than a book stinking of old death. The pages were far from white to begin with -- most were tan in coloration, nearly the same shade as the back of her hand, even. Still, black ink would show clearly enough, she knew. Now, the hybrid was very nearly done -- the book was mostly assembled, the thick sinew thread knotted through each of the pages and each piece of the thicker boiled leather binding.

The stitching was tedious work, and neither was it easy. This was nothing like sewing clothing together. She had to struggle with the thick bone needle, haphazardly carved from one of the deer's ribs for this very job, with each and every stroke. Pulling and tugging, the girl grunted, folding her ears flat in frustration. Myrika was tired, and she would have thrown the book across the field stretching before her little schoolhouse if it hadn't been so much damned work. The sun was setting, anyhow, and if she wanted to keep working, she'd have to light a fire or move inside and work by candlelight.

Eira neighed somewhere in the distance, and Myri cocked an ear to listen. There was no further noise from the mare, and Myri was content to let her wander. The blue roan never wandered far, and she would often respond to the Praeses' howl, if in hearing range. This varied with Eira's mood, however, and was not failproof. The coyote sighed and set the book down next to her on the ground. She turned back to empty contemplation, digging a clawed toe absently into the cold soil. She was happy to do the work, but she pondered whether anyone would appreciate it. How many of this clan could even read? She wouldn't have been surprised to find that number was rather low; from Thamur's tales and her own little experience, reading was an art lost to much of the world.

(326)

Her fingers started to ache upon cessation of her work, and the rusty hybrid stretched her arms out before her, extending the fingers as far as they would go. She cracked each of her knuckles and tilted her head this way and that, popping noises issuing from all over her body. It was hard work, and she thought she might be rid of it for the night. There was always tomorrow -- night would give way to day, and Myrika would have a new sunlight by which to work.

Her thoughts turned to the things she had learned about this place thus far. Their history was bloody, true enough -- she could not look upon most of the canines of Inferni and see cold-blooded killer, however. More than a few were laid-back, even-tempered, and most seemed utterly incapable of killing, herself included. The coyote ruminated over this and did not hear the approaching footsteps and noise until a voice called her name.

The Vigiles snapped to attention and stood, her smile at once welcoming and nervous. She did not feel at ease around Ezekiel. He was, after all, the first absolute leader she'd ever encountered -- Talitha and Sage were sub-leaders, accomplices to the Aquila. Thornloe had no true leadership. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and brushed her arms and thighs off, though nothing at all clung to them. Her big ears were folded backwards into the thick tangle of curly hair her Optime form spouted, but she did not bow before him; the woman simply dipped her head forward and brought it back up, though her gaze never quite met his thereafter.

Hello, Ezekiel, she said, warmly. What brings you out here? It was his territory, true enough, but Myri was the only one living way out here, so far as she knew. There was little reason to come here, thus why she'd staked out this spot.

(340)

The hybrid was sometimes adept where it came to social situations, navigating them with a gracefulness she would have found surprising, had she observed it from the outside looking in. Other times, it was as if she had never spent a moment of her life around another living being, and she had no idea of what to say. It was easy to interact when she was sure of herself, sure of her conversational partner. She was not sure of Ezekiel, and she was most certainly unsure of herself. The woman slung one arm over her ribs, holding her other elbow, grinning at the statement. It was still a nervous smile, but it did feel nice to be sought after. She still pondered just what reason he had to come and find her.

I didn't, but I can wait, if you'd rather settle business, she said, shrugging a shoulder and offering another polite dip of her head. A lock of rusty hair drifted into her face and she lifted her hand to push it aside, dropping the hand to her side thereafter. Why did she feel so damn awkward? There was no answer, of course, but it was there all the same, gnawing at her and taunting her. It sounded very much like the laughter of children, and Myrika thought she knew which. The Thornloe kids -- would they ever leave her? The tawny woman thought not; those formative months would be with her for the rest of her life, as would the tittering laughter of those cruel pups.

Ah... what was it, anyhow? What you have to talk to me about, I mean, she said, now seeming almost to ramble. That he specifically needed her had only served to make Myrika more nervous, and the cerulean-eyed woman now seemed particularly intent on the shadow in the distance, tail flickering in the air. Eira was quiet now, and Myri thought the mare might wander over for the night soon. She wouldn't meander about all night, nor should she.

(367)

The russet woman was an outsider, an anomaly wandering amongst the regulars. She had known nothing of this clan or her own family, aside from her dad's tales, which now seemed like fairy tales and scary stories meant to scare. The past of this clan was bloody enough, but it had been serene since her arrival, at least. She smiled a little at his words, but they did little to alleviate her worries. Nothing serious -- it must be true, otherwise he would have pressed their business, but Myri could not release her apprehension, much as she wished she could. Her tail flicked in nervousness, and she nodded her acquiescence.

She did not laugh at his joke, though she attempted a smile. In truth, the comment, small and innocuous as it was, had cut down to her very center. Too skinny, too tall, ears too big, snout too small. The "rhyme" -- it could only be called such loosely, for there was only one rhyming line -- had been repeated more than enough times when she was a child, and the last place she'd expected to hear it was from the mouth of a superior. Had she the capability, her skin would have been scarlet -- as it was, her ears and tail drooped visibly, though she turned away quickly toward the pit. Over here, she said, shuffling toward the ring of rocks she'd used as a pit. The ashes and bits of charred wood marked the place just as well as the rocks.

At least the humans are all gone now, she said, lamely. Most of her did not want to speak, but she had to fill the silence with something, or that remark would ring in her ears until she had to scream to make it go away. She moved off toward the side of the schoolhouse, half of her disappearing from view for a moment as she bent to pick up a few pieces of wood. The Vigiles shuffled back, carrying an armload of sticks and logs with surprising ease. She dumped the pile rather unceremoniously next to the pit, and started to move some into it, her innards still stinging and burning with shame.

(327)

The hybrid peered at him through locks of reddish hair, stealing glances at his face now and again. There were scars there, but nowhere near the amount Kaena's face carried. Her cerulean eyes studied him as furtively as she could manage, and she did not move to leave him to his work, even when he was beside her. It was awkward enough having the Aquila cook for her, after calling her too skinny. She didn't need the added awkwardness of standing around fiddling with her fingers for lack of anything else to do.

She listened to him with passing interest, her mind still rather snagged around the earlier comment. An ear, now erect once again, twitched, and the faint beginning of a smile appeared on her snout. I would believe it. They weren't too smart, and... I have a book, she confessed, now becoming more animated. I think it was written after the end came for them. I mean -- it had to have been written by people, the rusty hybrid said, the tip of her tail now twitching with a little bit of excitement. Myri liked books; she liked talking about them almost as much as reading them.

It chronicles their end, really, she continued, standing and taking a few steps back from the fire. She settled back on the ground a few feet away, tucking her tail around her buttock and beneath her. With a subject in mind, she could talk, and there was something to do other than twiddle her thumbs, after all. Nevertheless, she picked absently at a small scab near her knee, faintly pondering how she had acquired such a wound. No answer crawled forth from the recesses of her memory, and it wasn't so important, anyway. Like all nicks and scrapes, it would heal. Much of the bloodflow from the emotional wound Ezekiel had unwittingly dealt her had already slowed, and now it, too, would begin to heal.

(319)

Myrika had devoured that book more times than she could remember. Its yellowed pages were lovingly worn. She kept her books like some kept gold, but there was no doubt the books Myrika owned were very, very well-read. They had been in good condition, perhaps stored in some airtight container or dry, optimally temperate building until the scavenger-traders had come for them. The hybrid woman could not quite say where the books came from; she had obtained them second-hand, after all.

She toyed with her lower lip a moment, considering his question. There was obvious interest in her Aquila for this story, and Myrika did not wish to spoil it for him -- if he could read, she would gladly lend him the book, provided he kept after it as she did. Awkward as she could be, the russet women would have no qualm with telling even her Aquila just how to handle and treat her most prized possessions. Well, second most -- interesting as they were, Myrika could not quite place paper above a living creature, and so Eira held the esteemed spot of most prized possession of Myrika Tears.

It was a man -- Campion. He brought the sickness to a place called Texas, and it spread from there. I guess some of the people didn't get sick -- they were immune -- and they wrote everything down, she explained, pushing a finger into the spot of blood that had appeared on her leg. She'd picked the tiny scab off, and that tiny little mark now weeped blood. Do you want to read it? she asked, politely avoiding inquiring as to whether he could read with this question. She might even read it to him, if he could not read, but it would take them quite a long time. Her cerulean eyes watched him work on the bird, following the quick and sure movements of his hand.

(340)

Myrika had not yet discovered the library and Inferni's store of books. She would have already started to devour them, if she had -- there were, after all, only four books of her collection. Though they were all non-fiction, Myrika found the stylization and occasional supernatural elements of her apocalyptic book the best. The textbook and the instruction books were lovely and informative, but they were dryly written. The Stand, however, captivated and drew her into the human world. She did not understand everything about the book -- she supposed most of the things beyond her comprehension were the odd human social constructs and their culture -- but she understood well enough.

Her ears perked, and she listened to her Aquila with interest, attention swerving from the tiny mark on her leg to fully focusing on Ezekiel. It was good to know there was one other canine here capable of reading, at least one other canine who enjoyed books and stories. Myrika didn't think The Stand was based in a false reality; she had taken it for gospel truth of what had transpired to end humanity's reign over the earth. It made sense to her, anyhow. The coyote woman peered inquisitively toward the man, no longer interested by the movement of his hand, but the words he spoke. They were confident, as if the story he read was absolute truth. Myri would not argue; neither could say for certain beyond their own faith.

Who are the other horsemen? she asked, now curious. Perhaps their stories were not quite so disparate -- maybe her story was simply a part of his? She leaned forward now, nodding her enthusiasm toward the golden-hued man. Yes, yes, she said, reigning herself back by force. I would love that, she said, her tone growing quieter. Once again, she'd made herself feel awkward -- this time it was over-enthusiasm. She looked down at the ground and laughed a girlish and embarrassed giggle, then spoke again, her tone meeker than ever. I do love books.

(346)

Her ears cupped toward him and listened intently, blue-green eyes sparkling with interest and curiosity. He spoke rather monotonously, though she supposed he was absorbed in his work. It made no matter, anyhow -- the intonations of the storyteller mattered little to the rusty hybrid. It was the story itself that was most important. This was, no doubt, a dark story. Horses with riders named Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death did not allude to a particularly light-hearted tale. Then again, neither was the battered book tucked safely away in a corner of the schoolhouse.

What he said sounded strangely exotic and familiar all at once, giving rise to even more curiosity in the russet woman. It sounds like something I'd enjoy, she said, smiling. The girl had little idea of the religious implications; she hadn't been raised with much of any religious guidance. Kharma had thought to teach them to read and write and ride and saddle, but god and the spirit world weren't mentioned quite nearly so often as these more practical aspects of life. Yet Myrika was likely to be curious, above all, when she eventually encountered religion and its many thick tomes.

His next words were received with shocked ears, and the woman's thanks showed plainly -- her grin was broad and very nearly dreamy, her words quieted and awed. Thank you. I will be a frequent visitor there, I think, she said, scooting closer to the fire. It wasn't cold, but she was too warmed by his offer to remember her nervousness, and she wanted a closer look at him, anyway. Kaena told me a little about your dad... I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him, the woman ventured, hoping it was not a sore spot. She did not know where Gabriel had gone or what had happened to him after the rocks. Kaena would only grumble nonsensical responses, deliberately avoiding the question. It was part of their history, however, and she would soon be obligated to commit it all to ink and paper.

(328)

Kaena had spoken of him in the same way. It was faintly reverent, like an old saint long dead. Myrika had but one brief perspective on Inferni's old history, and she found it interesting mother and son of the same man would view him in such a manner, though not so noteworthy that she should mention it. She nodded, and smiled her friendly smile, although now it seemed harder at the corners -- faintly more resolute, if such a thing was possible. Yes. The same could be said for all Inferni's leaders, though. All leadership, ever, I think. Unless they're just figureheads, that's what they do -- lead the group in new directions. This was more musing than anything else; Myri had no leadership experience and she would have been horribly under-qualified. Yet she did not entirely lack worldliness -- books were a far cry from reality at times, but their occurrences and interactions were rooted in reality, too.

Her blue-green eyes flicked to his movements, watching the small jar and the seasoning. She assumed casually, trusting it was seasoning. An unkind canine could have poisoned her then and there, but Myrika did not think she'd made an enemy of Ezekiel or anyone else in Inferni, for that matter. She herself rarely cooked -- she enjoyed it's products, but found the task itself too tedious to bother when raw meat was often comparably good. Besides, to Myrika, cooking was simply sticking some meat over a fire. She rarely seasoned anything, nor did she specially prepare it for cooking in any other way. She was a far cry from a chef. It was nice having such a thing done for her; she wondered if she would be required to repay a favor in kind. Unlikely -- Ezekiel could have ordered her to do anything he wanted, after all. If she valued her place in the clan, she'd have to abide, or face life outside of it.

(337)

The scent of cooking meat reminded Myrika of Thornloe. The Pacrels hadn't been much for cooking, and Myrika herself could not be bothered, most of the time. But she recalled this scent fondly, thinking of the drifting smoke, thick with the scent of fire licking at flesh. She inhaled deeply, deeply brown nose quivering as she did so, her eyes half-lidding a moment. They reopened again in widened surprise a moment later at Ezekiel's question. She didn't find her tale of origin quite so interesting, and she had avoided telling everyone all about it precisely for that reason. Now, here was a direct inquiry. The russet-hued woman smiled uncomfortably and shifted in her position, looking back down at the dirt.

Thornloe, they called it. It was a good way away from here... I can't tell you just how far, 'cause I took the long way, she said, the smile touching her lips feeble. It was less of a detour and more of an extended rest she'd taken, really. In hindsight, she should have busted Eira right out of the Pacrel's fencing and ridden off on her. It would have saved Myri a world of trouble with that family, she thought, rankled by the thought of the Pacrel family -- Tyveni included. Especially Tyveni, perhaps. Myri knew it wasn't quite right to hold Tyvi's preferences against her, but the bitterness seethed quietly nonetheless.

My dad and my sister and me... we set out to come here, looking for mama. A storm separated us. Dad made it, too, but he didn't come to Inferni -- he went back to Thornloe. I don't know where Cassie is, she said, shifting again. Now there was a visible frown on her face. She had given up family to come here, certainly -- some would have said it was her rightful place to return to Thornloe with her father. The whole wide world extended out around Thornloe, however -- how could she remain there forever?

Myrika is by Nat!