bottle of red, bottle of white

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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For Jefferson to have accepted a gift from the coyote that knew he didn't like was strange enough; for the Patriarch to have smoked from it was stranger, but knowing the gruff, scarred male was opening up to him was possibly the strangest yet. Razekiel sensed from the old man that Jefferson was not one to allow strangers to invade his walls, though the coyote supposed he was not quite a stranger anymore; he had been there a few weeks, at least, and proved himself to be of no threat. He was not the Lykoi his mother and brothers and sisters were, and the sable man found great comfort that Jefferson had managed to decide the same of him.

They were similar in age as well, though the few years' difference was obvious. Razekiel had turned four years old half a week ago; youth was still on his side, while Jefferson was on the route to some sort of retirement — or needed to be, anyway. There was only a two-year difference between them, but perhaps Razekiel's life of peace and love had earned him more youth than most four-year-olds, and Jefferson's tumultuous life had consequently made him older.

"There's a real groovy pad north, northwest of here I wish everyone could see," the prince smiled, the sun content in his dreamy eyes. "Real souped up place, man. All the Mother's sun, the Father's blue sea, the mountains and the city..."

He released a grand, charmed sigh, slowly lowering the arms he'd raised in sheer passion. "You could take a break there, man: wiz, fuck, catch some Z's... It's real nifty, man, out of sight. I'm gonna get people and bring 'em there and we'll all just chill out a while and love each other."