bottle of red, bottle of white

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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Even with the cigarette there to relax him, Razekiel sensed an unending tension in the Patriarch's words, as if every sound that slipped from his tongue needed argument and challenging, as if nothing he could say was good enough to be spoken. This Jefferson was a tragic fellow, the coyote knew, but none were beyond help; it would take encouragement and time to himself perhaps, but the old Patriarch could find peace of mind if he truly wished for it. The problem was, Razekiel saw, that Jefferson had given up on such a thing. What had happened to trouble him so? He spoke of Inferni tension, and hinted at possibly murder — something the coyote briefly screwed his face at, unknown to the Valley man — but these things were natural for most creatures like they. Were there more sins on his soul?

Was he only multiplying them by forcing himself into servitude?

He spoke the truth, however, and Razekiel nodded sagely in reply. Seeing the cyclops continuing to puff at the cigarette, the coyote tucked into the satchel at his hip and searched for another homemade tobacco stick as Jefferson continued, his words increasingly saddening as he rambled on. Finding a stick, the coyote pulled a lighter from his pocket, clicked at it and calmly lit the cigarette.

"My family lives in Inferni," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "They've lost their way, man."

Razekiel missed them, though. His mother was still there, surely, along with Gabriel and Anselm and perhaps even his daughters. He would visit them, in time, surely before he managed to organize his group in the north; the coyote's heart swelled at the very thought of his daughters accompanying him there. He rubbed at his neck a moment, stuffing the cigarette in his mouth until his hesitance to speak subsided.

Shrugging his shoulders, the straw-eyed man held his gaze on the water. "What if I take them?"