that old wind is whistlin' your tune

Wayne McCoy · 02-26-2012, 02:55 PM

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I was a young troubadour, when I rode in on a song

Word Count :: 261

The puppy trotted up to him eagerly and gave him a good sniff, reminding Wayne of his days as a kid. He’d gotten his nose into everything, literally—and had one ran around wailing with his floppy ears bouncing against his head, porcupine spines stuck all around his doggish muzzle. He’d been less stupidly curious after that, his sniffy stage abruptly ended. Realizing how not all long ago it was made him grin, recognizing that he wasn’t even two years old yet. This cub was only a few months herself, perhaps born at the onset of winter, a tough time to raise children in the north.

She giggled, presumably at his southern accent, and greeted him with the conventional saying all Ichikans seemed to follow. He’d heard plenty of “Namastes” during his time here.

The girl introduced herself as Dalgina after giving his callused hand a lick, but then she seemed perplexed about the horse. Wondering if the child had some kind of vision impairment, he glanced over his shoulder at the pied mare waiting a safe distance away; Gypsy’s head was low to the ground, as if grazing, but her intent eyes betrayed her curiosity for the miniature wolf.

“Right there,” Wayne said, jerking a thumb back in the paint’s direction. “You ever seen one before?” He supposed that was the more likely possibility. He doubted any puppy growing up in Casa di Cavalieri would be clueless about what a horse was, thanks to him and Dixie-May, but Ichika wasn’t as overrun with the creatures as the southern pack was.

I'll be an old troubadour, when I'm gone

Image courtesy of UmbraDeNoapte-Stock

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