bottle of red, bottle of white

[Jefferson Soul]

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What possessed him to take that cigarette, he did not know. Jefferson had never been a man for drugs; he barely touched alcohol as it was, though he'd always known he was the prime type to need such a release. It was not only the difficulty of obtaining the stuff, really; Jefferson had decided long ago that he would not spend his time repenting for his sins intoxicated and making the process easier. No, he had killed and raped in his time — he did not deserve an easier penance in the least. The cyclops knew honor, if nothing else: If he was going to truly make up for all he had done and earn himself even slight peace of mind by the time he laid himself to rest, he would make all efforts to do it. He would endure the full pain every step of the way, never tempted by the numbing possibilities of alcohol and drugs.

And yet he had taken the cigarette — something he had not once touched nor tasted in his amnesiac life — and without thought nor hesitation pushed it between his teeth and breathed. Smoke and tobacco swirled in his throat and tongue; the taste was awful, truly terrible, and yet as he passed seconds inhaling his shoulders lowered, their tension melting away. The ache in his knee subsided, the thoughts in his mind slowed to a pace he could follow. As he finally released the smoke back to the air, it caught in his throat and lungs and burned; the cough that resulted was as low and subtle as he could make it, and the man kept his eyes low as they watered. They burnt, though it was a good pain, like the drawing of blood to ensure one could still feel.

What Razekiel said next Jefferson had to deeply consider, for as always the coyote spoke in riddles that in the end meant very little. The smoking cigarette still between his fingers, the Patriarch bent over the pool of water and gazed into his swirling, moving reflection. Such age lingered in his old eyes, even the one that never opened. "I've had enough of 'going all the way,'" he expelled in a sigh, voice hoarse. He could not imagine doing such things with anyone anymore, not after Geneva had gone off and probably died, and Pripyat pretty much hated him.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," he mumbled, "but my members aren't old enough or wise enough to know how to run a pack yet." And he would not risk his son under the leadership of someone who didn't know how to run the job.