I'm not about to give thanks or apologize.

Ezekiel de le Poer · 02-16-2011, 07:22 PM

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The bronze coyote moved with practiced ease. He was familiar with the tasks of cleaning bedding. In the clan he had lived with, such things were duties given to the young warriors—he was not old enough for them to consider him an adult until the first time they had seen him fight. Ezekiel was young, but he had been trained well. He fought with the skills of three warriors, not simply one, and it showed.

For now. He wondered if she thought about leaving again, and felt a deep wound inside of him ache. Yet she spoke of company, and he considered this promising. It reminded him too of their differences. She needed people. He did not. Ezekiel had learned to find comfort in solitude, and often sought it. Even the animals who spoke low-speech, ravens and badgers and the like, they did not find the need for company often. When they spoke with the scarred coyote it was not for long, and usually only to determine his purpose in their land. He had always been polite, as he was taught, and the animals often aided him in their own ways.

Her comments were said with jest, but he caught an undertone and his eyes narrowed slightly. Was she hiding something there? His mask continued to smile despite not reaching his eyes, and he grinned wolfishly at her. “Well, I take after dad. And you look like you could stand to gain some weight,” he added, eyeing her thin frame. “I’ll have to catch you something to thank you for the help.” It was not an offer, but more of a demand. He passed her and tossed the dry grass into the snowy wind and watch it get swept up and away by the cold breeze.

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