Night of the Hunter

Larkspur D'Angelo · 08-08-2010, 02:52 AM

[html]

Though his eyesight was still good, Larkspur was unable to see the subtle signs the stranger was displaying. They were too far away, it was too dark (for the moon was just past half, turning gibbous above them) and he was not looking at anything except the boy’s face. It intrigued him. He had seen magicians dye themselves in order to denote their rank, and seen warriors paint their faces before battle, but this boy was not holding a ritual and certainly not meant for battle. Why, then, was his face drawn up in such a manner? It was puzzling.

Yet he heard the nervousness as the boy—Mars—spoke and relaxed. He sensed no danger. The name Cour Des Miracles was dismissed, for Larkspur had never heard of it and didn’t pay attention to the politics of packs. The only group besides his own he recognized was Inferni, and he intended to stay as far away from them as possible. While he had liked Kaena when they had met, the burning of Dahlia de Mai had drawn up fears he would never get over. His own mare, stockier then the boy’s horse, snorted but otherwise remained still. She was as patient as her master. “Larkspur D’Angelo. M’from further north, from Dahlia de Mai.” He shifted back in the saddle, orange eyes still locked with the pale blue-gray ones. The quiet comment did not slip by his sensitive ears. “Yeah n’yer dressed funny. I ain’t ever seen a wolf dressed up like y’are. Must not feel too good,” he added, tilting his head slightly. Larkspur had never worn anything more than a winter cloak, and most often was nude save for his fur. Tonight was not an exception.

Login




Remember me Lost Password?