a magician and a heritic

Ezekiel de le Poer · 02-16-2011, 07:25 PM

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It was his sister’s voice that drifted over the wind, and Ezekiel turned to it. She was lingering in the tree-line, a umber-russet shape broken up by the clothes she wore. He found that an odd practice, but likened it to the ways that the hybrid clan he had lived with used such things. Decoration, usually, or simply for entertainment. Ezekiel did not practice such things, favoring his bronze coat and the freedom of movement it allowed him. Blood had stained his hands and many sections of his fur a deep red, closer to her own color, and this effect was not lost on him.

Marlowe ignored the girl and turned back to his book. The coyote looked back to the freshly disturbed earth and breathed out a cloud of steam. “To give thanks,” he explained, turning his back to her and resuming the task at hand. Sharp, short cuts continued to pull apart the sections of internal organs he would use. He had moved lower, and now worked on removing the bladder. “I don’t need the heart, and it will keep the spirits happy.” A jerk of the wrist slit the organ, spilling the sharply scented urine over the snow. If he had been intending to make white leather, he might have kept it.

“Do you want to share this with me? I’m going to cook some of it. I don’t know if you’ve ever had cooked food, it’s pretty good.” Marlowe made a cawing remark on this, to which the bronze coyote replied with the same croaking sound. He motioned to the head, and the bird fluttered to the young buck and began digging at the eyeballs. They were, after all, his favorite.

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