Word Count :: 422 o look the knife? x:
The hybrid settled behind her packmate, her gaze upon that spot Tlantli had indicated moments prior. She said nothing as the other canine spoke, merely laid her hand against the spot where it would be. There were no words to speak, no chants or incantations to mark the rite that the coal woman knew of. Her thoughts, all the same, fell blankly away and she focused her intent on that hand, that spot, wishing to sear her protection into it. The knife was in her other hand, held loosely and deftly, still for the moment. She drew her hand back, and the blade sliced into fur, hacking it away as not to impede with the process. It would be painless now, but when it began to grow back, she would have to cut it again in order to access the wound, and it would not be so painless then.
Her mind was focused on the old woman, the one who had scarred her shoulder. Her eyes had been dimmed with cataracts, but her hands were swift and they had not erred over the long weeks Eris visited her. The coyote wondered if she would be so lucky, a novice. Maybe the hundredth time she cut someone, but not this time. In preparation, she had caught a rabbit and skinned it bare, leaving the flesh intact to slice and cut with one of Molcaxitl's cooking knives. That had been a metal knife, though, and this was a stone blade. Familiar as it was in her hand, she hadn't cut living canine flesh with it before.
She positioned the dagger over the woman's skin, sliding the sharpened edge into her flesh. A thick line of red welled up beneath it, oozing over the matte black of the knife. It seemed darker there, as if the obsidian took away some of the color, but the coyote woman was quick to flick most of the blood away and toward the fire, slicing again into the coyote woman's flesh. The lines were simple, the design sealed into the hybrid's mind. In a shorter time than the coyote woman would have believed, they were all there, welling liquid red and seeping into the golden-yellow fur beneath. The hybrid pressed her free paw over the wound, adding her pressure over it. She would have cloth next time, and herbs, too. For now, this rough sort of thing would do -- it was not truly the method or the aftercare, but the symbol that mattered.
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