sorry for the delay
The boy and his horse were a peculiar sight. Well, the boy was. It looked as if half of his face had been painted black. As he approached, Larkspur studied his face. Clearly he was looking at a hybrid—the muzzle was broader and shorter then a wolf’s, and he was much smaller than any purebred. With a father who was himself an arctic wolf, the largest of all the wild kin, Larkspur was built large. He had filled out since he had joined Dahlia de Mai, in large part because he was allowed to hunt freely. The Khalif had never granted that right to a boy marked by evil. Until he had settled east, Larkspur had been lanky (though still large) and scavenging for his meals.
Both of Larkspur’s ears rose to a dark crown and listened to the voice. He did not expect anything deeper then what he heard, though his eyes narrowed as he observed the boy sizing him up. Larkspur had survived by instincts and by fighting, and he recognized that even within that silent observation the boy might be considering any number of things. Violence, of course, always seemed to be a likely option. The wolf flicked an ear dismissively at the comment. “Guess not,” he replied. The mountain drawl had not left him. “What’re y’doin out this late, kid?” Looking for trouble, most likely. What else did boys do?
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