bottle of red, bottle of white

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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The sable coyote had wanted to speak with Jefferson on many an occasion, but it always seemed the war-torn authority figure had busied himself with something much too focused to allow Razekiel a moment to speak and try to raise the old man's spirits. Razekiel was not much younger than he, but it seemed the experiences the Patriarch had endured in his life had made him seem and act all the older; the coyote knew it weighed on his shoulders and soul alike, and that leading a pack in addition was only wearing the one-eyed leader down more and more with each passing day. Razekiel had only been in his midst less than a month, and yet the Lykoi felt unbelievable compassion for the man. Had he only a second to enjoy the sun's rays, or the rush of the waves at the Father's shore, perhaps he would have been able to breathe easier... but Jefferson had no time.

Or, perhaps he did. Exchanging marijuana for a simple cigarette that day, Razekiel detected the old man's scent in the air not far from the ranch he resided in, though it led him much past the building and its newly renovated roof. At the side of the southern Mirror Lake Razekiel found him, head in his solitary hand, silent as a stone in the wind. The soft spring breeze picked up, allowing relief from the slight humidity and the sun above, and with a puff of his cigarette the coyote approached.

"You look older every time I see you, man," the prince said quietly, one hand collecting the tobacco stick from his lips, the other in a pocket.