we were burned to ASHES

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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1. Character Name: Razekiel Lykoi

2. Birthdate: 6/6/06

3. Luperci: Yes.

4. Gender: Male.

5. Your e-mail: deviousgoldfish♣gmail.com

6. A secondary form of contact: AIM, monkey seizure

(This thread introduces Razekiel Lykoi as an NPC to Phoenix Valley, as well as Jefferson's NPC companion.)


♣ ♣ ♣

Unknown to the Valley Patriarch, a prince dwelt in his midst.

To Jefferson, the stranger could only be identified through a sickly-sweet scent lingering far beyond Valley borders. The scent's type meant nothing to the scarred man — he knew nothing about drugs and had hardly the experience with alcohol to begin with — but it was still a smell foreign to Valley packlands. His members did not fool with such menial pastimes such as drugs; certainly their leader expected better of them, and in his two years' leading the pack he had not found himself disappointed in his members' demeanor — save for a self-injurious incident or two, in which the offending underlings met proper chastising, or as proper as a one-eyed, one-armed murderer-for-a-leader could possibly provide.

Jefferson regretted nothing. His leadership had never been prime, never been the highest of quality, but never had he heard complaints either. He did not rule with an iron fist, nor did he last a lenient reign; the loonies of the Valley had lived in benevolence, for the most part, allowed their freedoms if they performed their duties, and the cycle revolved accordingly and without interruption. Jefferson did his utmost in preventing idiots like Lucifer from torturing Valley members further, did his best to ensure they could return to the Valley at any time both expecting and being met with peace and safety. He was not perfect, but he had never been leader material, but he tried: and it was that same effort that forced him, with dragging feet, after the source of the horrid smell clogging fresh Valley air.

To his irritation, the quickly-fading smell brought him past Valley borders. No call, no howl neighbored the scent, no immediate desire to be found, and yet Jefferson followed it nonetheless, always the guardian — always the titan seeking safety for his Valley in and out.

What he found, he was not sure; puffs of smoke billowed in clouds from the innards of what appeared to be a small tent, crafted entirely from leaves and wood, much too small in size for one as large as he to even sit in. He glared momentarily at what appeared to be a makeshift fire pit — one that had been recently burning — and drowning out his gags and coughs on the awful smell strummed a guitar and its owner in the tent, singing as horribly as the smell the little hut omitted. Briefly, the Patriarch cursed beneath his breath and made a note to give a talking-to to his scouts and rangers as soon as possible, but for now, he had a dumbass to shoo away.

Rather than peek into the tent and introduce himself as one with actual manners might do, the scarred man, in a very "Jefferson" action, kicked at the tent and effortlessly collapsed it down into itself and the idiot within. A cloud of smoke erupted in his face from the exhaling shack, and with a burning nose and a sneeze, the man stepped back and waved it away.

"Woooaaahhhhh," a voice laughed from within the rubble, for a moment buried beneath stick and twig before managing to poke his grinning face from the remains. "Ahhhhahaha, did you see that? The whole thing just landed right on my head, man, righteous!" Straw-hued eyes met green eye with a pleasant, unalarmed gaze, the black-furred coyote rising from the fallen tent and dusting himself off.

Jefferson, of course, could not be bothered with a similar friendliness. "You'd better have a damn good reason to be camping right outside my territory," he snorted, scars creasing in displeasure, "and stinking up the place."

The coyote was not to be frightened, however; his smile did not wane, and though he paused just briefly to look with dazed surprise at the Patriarch, the coyote began to giggle and stepped out of the rubble, then diligently beginning to dig through it. "Don't flip your wig, man, it's cool," the scrawny coyote grinned, tan dreadlocks dangling before his eyes. "If you want me to beat feet I'll go, man, I just thought this shindig was real choice, you know? The Mother's far out around here. I can't get enough of her!" Giggling further to himself, the coyote brightened suddenly and pried a pair of rose-tinted glasses from the pile and placed them gingerly on his nose. Jefferson, unsurpsingly overwhelmed by the foreign dialogue that hardly met comprehension in his mind, jumped in alarm when the black coyote suddenly extended a hand in greeting, though it wavered and wiggled loosely in the air. "I'm Razekiel," he grinned. "Razekiel Lykoi. Didn't mean to get the fuzz all hacked and stuff."

Lykoi? The cyclops thinned his eye instantaneously; this Razekiel was far unlike any other Lykoi the scarred man had ever seen. When Jefferson glared at the extended hand, the coyote only gurgled something about "giving some skin," and at that the cyclops sighed and shook it, already weary of the idiot and his labirynth conversation. "Jefferson," he grumbled; perhaps he would have been angrier had there not been so much weighing his shoulders already. In retrospect, some harmless hippie smoking at his borders was the least of his worries. "I don't know anything you just said, but you're real fucking stupid if you think it's safe to just camp on the borders of claimed lands."

"I didn't know anyone lived here, man," Razekiel shrugged.