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It had taken a good deal of convincing for Max to actually begin his project. He had observed, over his time in the clan, that the Mansion was held in some odd, just-about-to-collapse state of being. Though he was still unsure how to repair the plaster or broken glass, he was more confident about the things he did understand.

This was why, with no more than a hatchet and grim resolve, he had cut down four rather impressive young trees and stripped them into long, bark-still-on pillars. His decision to repair the porch’s sagging roof was not made lightly. After many years of disrepair and snowfall, the wood and whatever else made it up had become bowed impossibly towards the earth. Max was certain that if it was left like that the whole thing would go down. That was part of his reasoning for this project, though the more obvious part was the rotting beams that supported the whole mess. There were four of them, spaced equally apart from the central staircase, and one was nearly rotted completely through. The sturdy trees, all of which he had dragged (with Oblak’s help) to the grassy lawn, would replace these for at least a few more years.

Now, of course, came the complicated part. With his go-to man gone (the Cajun had mentioned this earlier in the week, saying something about a fishing trip) Max was on his own, and while he had the hard-cover book with visual instructions, he knew that the job would likely need two people to make work. Maybe, he reasoned, his noise would stir up some help. With a huff, he looked over his pile of tools and supplies and made a mental note to try and collect more. The nails, rusted hammer, and hatchet were all he had. Inferni needed more, he further reasoned, and watched as a bold squirrel leapt from a nearby tree to another.

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It hardly surprised him to see others around the area; Max was well aware that the majority of the clansmen made residence here. He still clung to Grimwell, enjoying his solitude and the safety offered by stone walls. Hell, he’d felt bad enough about trashing Ezekiel’s stuff to go and clean it up (eventually). Despite this, he was still under obligation to help the place he called home, even if the building was not the one he himself lived in.

His gaze dropped from the squirrel to the approaching duo. One he recognized, the other he did not. It was a dog, like himself and his missing would-be mentor. This one, like the Cajun (and hell, even like himself) leaned closer in appearance to this domestic blood. Max was surprised to see how friendly he was and ended up staring openly, ears high and brows furrowed, until Vesper pulled her friend away. He thought suddenly and sharply of Draugr and wondered about seeking her out again. Sometime soon, he decided, and smiled secretly at the thought.

“I’m hoping to,” he began to explain, and motioned to the porch roof. “The posts are getting pretty bad, so I figured it was time to replace them. I need to cut more down for the flat part,” Max added, and took a step forward. “But one thing at a time, yeah?” A crooked grin showed his teeth, massive and snaggle-toothed like his father before him, and then the pale warrior looked back to the mottled dog with the bright eyes. “Who’s this?”

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It took a lot to strike fear into the heart of the coydog. He had suffered greatly as a child and, in the way of children, turned his fear outward. To be afraid was to be powerless. In order to save himself Max had become violent and aggressive. Proof of this showed in every scar, in his haphazard way of living, in each gesture and provocative gaze. Max didn’t care who he fought—he just liked to fight.

So these other methods of expelling his fear turned rage were found. Archery had been one, hunting another. Carpentry was the newest one, as suggested by his southern friend, as it not only forced him to be physical but gave him something he could, quite literally, beat the hell out of. His first projects had been simple things; this was new ground, and while he was hardly lacking in muscles, his confidence and his experience were still slim.

That did not mean he allowed it to show; his broad, toothy grin was the very show of pride that belonged to such invincible young men. “Max Klein,” he responded, and shook the dog’s hand firmly. “Horse poachers, huh?” His eyes lifted to Vesper, curious. “Guess I’ll be taking some extra patrols out of the borders” Though it was a friendly suggestion, his eyes echoed this pent-up aggression.

“The help would be great, actually,” he went on and propped one hand on his side, crooking his elbow. “I need to get them set up next to the old ones and hammer ‘em in. Then we gotta knock out the old ones. Easy enough, yeah?”

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The whole behavior of the elder woman and her mottled friend reminded Max of siblings. It was a thought that did not remain happy. His smile faded and his eyes grew hard and distant. Though only scars of battle showed on his skin, much deeper ones lingered underneath. He thought of his brother, and his sisters, and how they had turned on him without so much as a second thought. As the memory threatened to consume him, the Centurion spoke again and freed him from the chain of memory.

“Oh yeah,” he said blankly, shaking his mind away from such dark places. “Here, I’ll show you what I mean before we lift it.” He turned back to the pile of tools and picked up the rusted by otherwise fully useable hammer. A long nail was in his hand, this one only spotted with rust as opposed to covered in it. They had to go through a lot to find those that would do their job right, and Max was seriously considering finding a blacksmith. Ezekiel had mentioned Freetown before, but Max was ignorant to its location and purpose.

“What you’ll do is hold this where you want to put it in,” he explained, and held the nail between two fingers. “And I’ll show you, before you do, where to do that—but you put this against the wood, kinda at an angle, and then you’ll hit it on the head. Strong hits, not little taps, yeah?” He demonstrated in the air, smacking the head of the nail with the hammer and making a dull ping as he did so.

“Let’s start on that side,” he said, and pointed with his nose. He handed the tools to Vesper and moved to one of the thick lengths of wood. As muscle-bound as he was, he was certainly glad for the other man’s help. “Alright, just grab it under there; that’s right. Ready? Up!”

With a grunt he hoisted, and between himself and the collie managed to move it more or less to its new home on the porch. Being that they had been measured (by a clever use of sinew) the fit was exact. It actually took Max several minutes to shove and twist the thing exactly where he wanted it, knocking bits of rotting wood from above loose in the process. Some fell onto his fur and remained there as, panting, he held the beam in place and used his foot to motion to each spot he had in mind. “There, there, there, and there,” he finished, and waited eagerly to see how Vesper might handle the tool.

art by crypsis

The two males were able, with little difficulty, able to shift the log about. It wasn’t until Max felt the thing turn firm and refuse to budge against even his full weight that he had stopped. Using the nails were mostly as a precaution, something the armature in him feared. As long as this would hold the sagging roof until he got stronger wood up the hybrid would be happy.

So focused was Max on this that he hardly noticed Asher’s hovering. He watched Vesper handle the tools and found that once the concept was picked up on she hardly seemed to hit it wrong. Pleased by this, he grinned broadly. “Yes,” he echoed, and hopped off the porch to trot to the next closest log. By the time they reached the final one the whole process had been cut dramatically down in time. So, grunting and heaving, Max forced the final beam in place with Asher’s help and struck his palm against it. “Much better than what the humans did,” he proclaimed loudly, grinning ear to ear. Vesper still had to nail it down, of course, and then the old wood would nee removed, but this was progress none the less.

art by crypsis

“Yeah, I like the caves better too,” Max echoed, and spared a friendly glance to Asher. The coydog was pleased with the other man’s work and certainly saw why he had (despite apparently annoying the hell out of Vesper) managed to make it into the ranks. He was about to further add that there were a lot of vacancies in the aforementioned structure when the door swung open.

“Oh, so it is you!” Rémy’s bark sounded as he stormed out, hair every which way and nude. His reddish eyes were narrowed and angry, and his whole face was twisted into an unfriendly scowl. “Didn’t I tell you ‘fore, Maxie, if y…” he trailed off suddenly, as if recognizing others were present. Max frowned and quirked a brow as the older coydog’s expression changed quickly. He was soon grinning ear to ear, bushy tail wagging behind him. A shining gold tooth flashed as he spoke—it was something that happened whenever Rémy opened his mouth, but Max still hadn’t gotten used to it. “Choooh! Lookit dis ‘ere!”

Rémy nearly shoved Max out of the way, and the younger warrior let out a low growl at the motion. It hardly seemed noticed as the Cajun ran his hands over the wood, which aside from a few scrapes, still had most of the bark on it. “Oh dis is nice, Maxie, dis real nice.” Gold tooth flashing, Rémy leapt down and greeted Vesper with his usual flair—going so far as to even tip an imaginary hat in her direction. “Ah cheri, you tree did good. And dis ‘ere,” he leaned back, eyeing the newcomer with manic red-brown eyes. “Oh he ain’t not’in but a peeshwank. He almost as skinny as you, cheri! Dis won’t do, no, not at all! Come on, work make a mad an ahnvee for some bouillion. I fix you tree up some food, even you, Tahyo!”

Almost as suddenly he was scampering inside, muttering in his would-be French, and gone down a hallway. Max could hear him clambering in the kitchen and shook his head. “If he wasn’t so good with that damn stick of his I’d—“

“You ain’t gon’ do no’tin!” Rémy called from inside. The pale coyote made a face and rolled his eyes, which trailed to Vesper first and then her mottled companion. “I hope you like spice,” he warned, and smiled a little in spite of his (mostly happy) annoyance with Rémy’s ridiculous…self.

art by crypsis

The Mansion was dilapidated. There was no denying this point. Everywhere the old wood looked rotted or chewed away, and despite various attempts to clean and sort things out, canines were ultimately too feral to sort of this mess themselves. While orderly and certainly lived-in, there was no cure for the lack of windows, age, or abuse suffered by the place. Faint graffiti still marred several walls, and most of the valuables had been looted long ago. Everywhere paint was peeling and plaster cracking, and the place reeked of a thousand strange things—the living bodies, for one, lead-based paint, dry-rot from mattresses and furniture, dead leaves, odd and wonderful spices from the kitchen, fire and smoke, and the dry-dust smell of old books. It was a place that should not have been standing, but here it was…and Max, stubborn as ever, sought to keep it that way (even if he refused to live in the place).

Rémy had made magic in the kitchen. It had been reworked to function with wood-burning equipment as opposed to gas or electric, and by jury-rigging vents he kept the heat as low as possible. A massive wooden table served as the central part of the room, ringed by mismatched chairs. There was only one counter, under a broad, wide window and accented by a stainless steel sink. The back door, propped open, led out towards the Greenhouse and gave a fair view of the back half of the property. It had once been a bold sunset yellow, but the paint had faded and the tile accents were chipped and broken—still, the primitive décor of bones and scavenged goods made for an interesting sight.

This was further accented by Rémy’s presence himself. Still naked, he had pulled his hair away from his face using a dark cloth, and his makeshift bandana gave him a rather low-grade appearance. Adding that with his gold tooth was laughable. Still, he moved with the speed and grace closer to a dancer than anything else (though he was a thief by trade and chef second to this), darting here and there to snatch up foggy glasses with dried plants in them. A massive pot was on the stove, and it already smelt like food. Max guessed that the coydog had prepared this earlier, as he usually did.

“...de trick,” Rémy was explaining to Asher, who had arrived before Max and Vesper made it into the room. “Is you gotta keep dis ‘ere fire nice an’ low. Dis keep de flava jus where we wan’ it t’be.” As he said this, he spilled a handful of some spice into the pot. Max sat at the table and rolled one shoulder, unhappy with the ache that had formed there. Rémy, noting this, shot him a look. “Chu ain’t done nuttin’ stupid again?”

“No,” Max said blandly, and huffed at the idea. “I’m working.”

“Oh den that all right. Maxie, he get himself into all sorts of trouble. Dis why I make all y’all learn t’use sticks propa; whack a foo on de head and he ain’t gon’ t’botha no one no mo’,” the coy-dog laughed loudly, and turned back to his stew. Clearly unhappy about the mention of his previous wounds, Max rubbed at the scar on his head, hardly noticing he was doing it.

art by crypsis

By and large, Max’s interest in fixing things was based on a subconscious need to repair, though he was not aware of it and certainly didn’t think of himself as broken. Rémy had been the one who had steered him in that direction, and it was better than getting stitched up or beaten upon by the angry man. Though he no longer hated Ezekiel for what he had done, the resentment had turned black and joined the host of other unsolved emotional issues deep in his belly. Max dealt with his emotions, as he had always done, by ignoring them and turning them inward. It explained, perhaps, why he was so eager to meet violence with violence.

Even though he found the whole display a bit ridiculous, Max found himself again thinking of Draugr, wondering if he would ever see her again. Salsola was so close, but he feared their borders. He remembered the people that had come from that place and was not fooled by the girlish scouts that had met him before. Monsters lived in there, of a nature entirely different than Inferni’s own.

“Oh a’course,” Rémy exclaimed, and gave Asher a firm pat on the back. “I teach erry’one how to do dis. None of ‘em ever be as good as me,” he went on, grinning cockily. “But dey tink so. Even Miz ‘ere Vesper’s gaienne, she jus’ as skinny as you n’she pick up de stick. Ain’t as good wit it as she is wit her beb, I tink,” His little joke was an inside one, and flashed with a wink towards the Centurion.

Max rolled his pale eyes obviously and leaned back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs. A breeze brought a peculiar odor with it and he crinkled his face. “What is that?”

Rémy, now stirring the pot with a large spoon, waved his hand dismissively. “White Lightnin’,” he explained. “Won’t be done till winter. I ever have you try dis, cheri?” He asked Vesper, motioning to a clear jar on the counter. “I make a fine ‘shine.”

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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.”

art by crypsis

It was obvious that Asher found something fascinating about the Cajun, and while Max was ignorant to the idea of homosexuality being odd (he had, after all, been Ezekiel’s apprentice) he found the whole display entertaining. Vesper certainly did. The four of them had settled in nicely and Max was glad for it. Before Inferni he had known only isolation and fear from groups. This was his pack. In the vague, distant part of his being that was feral and primeval in nature, he identified Inferni as home and safety and therefore found himself most comfortable around them. He would likely never be able to shake the notion, but this was his home. Maybe someday he would find a girl to settle down with and make babies, but he was young yet and still beyond such things. Still, he thought of Draugr and smiled wistfully at the idea, wondering what children with her might look like…

A cup was pushed into his vision and Max blinked twice, clearing his head. The same could not be said for the moonshine, which burnt the whole way down and settled into a warm pit in his stomach. It growled loudly and Rémy laughed behind him. “It’s a comin’, it’s a comin’!” And sure enough, he tested the stew and found it adequate to serve. With great flourish the coydog ladled three bowls of the stuff and balancing precariously, placed them before the trio. He padded back to gather his own and pulled up a seat next to Max, much to the young warrior’s chagrin. The coydog poured everyone another round of drinks, took his own, and then motioned for everyone to eat.