01-28-2011, 06:28 AM
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A cold wind rose at his back and tousled his long bangs. Ezekiel breathed out a cloud of steam as he walked, pale feet following that invisible trail that he knew by heart. It had been two years since he had left, but his memory was made up of maps and survival instincts that knew the way home. He walked on two legs now, as he had for most of this journey. His hands had been needed—the coyote hunted best with the bow on his back, and it had served him well. Despite the journey, his weight had only dropped slightly. Winter fur hid this fact. He had grown into his body, tall and broad-shouldered despite his coyote blood.
He did not bear new scars. Those across his left eye were enough for him to learn to be wise. The demon crow-wolf had taught the boy an important lesson. While there had been many fights none had left scars. A now-dead woman had taught him to heal, and Ezekiel remembered her lessons well. Her brother had told the boy (who was now a man) the news when they had last crossed paths. Months had passed since then. A war had come and gone in that time.
Age showed itself in his eyes if not in his body, for they had hardened some. He was not yet corrupted, as he had made a promise to the woad-painted warrior years ago. For all that had happened, he had not succumbed to darkness. His world was not rose-tinted anymore, and he had seen horrors, but he had kept his faith and kept his word. That was all he was capable of doing when such monstrosities had threatened to destroy him.
He did not need to wear his scars to feel them.
Silent, he approached from the west. A wolf skull, bleached by sun and time, greeted him. The prince found the barbaric practice held meaning now, and understood why his father did such things. He had seen its power in the desert. He had seen a great deal of terrible things in the desert. A shadow crossed over him and he looked to the sky, a gray-white thing that spoke of snow, and smiled as the raven descended. Marlowe had once been a great confidant, and as he landed on Ezekiel’s shoulder they spoke in low-speech and waited together.
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He did not bear new scars. Those across his left eye were enough for him to learn to be wise. The demon crow-wolf had taught the boy an important lesson. While there had been many fights none had left scars. A now-dead woman had taught him to heal, and Ezekiel remembered her lessons well. Her brother had told the boy (who was now a man) the news when they had last crossed paths. Months had passed since then. A war had come and gone in that time.
Age showed itself in his eyes if not in his body, for they had hardened some. He was not yet corrupted, as he had made a promise to the woad-painted warrior years ago. For all that had happened, he had not succumbed to darkness. His world was not rose-tinted anymore, and he had seen horrors, but he had kept his faith and kept his word. That was all he was capable of doing when such monstrosities had threatened to destroy him.
He did not need to wear his scars to feel them.
Silent, he approached from the west. A wolf skull, bleached by sun and time, greeted him. The prince found the barbaric practice held meaning now, and understood why his father did such things. He had seen its power in the desert. He had seen a great deal of terrible things in the desert. A shadow crossed over him and he looked to the sky, a gray-white thing that spoke of snow, and smiled as the raven descended. Marlowe had once been a great confidant, and as he landed on Ezekiel’s shoulder they spoke in low-speech and waited together.