It was an impressive set up, this place, and Zeke admired it despite his dislike of human buildings. He had once had a bad experience in a crumbling village and gained a healthy respect for the land’s desire to reclaim such things. Of course, a winter had shown him just how terrible the land could be—not this storm past, but another, had ripped a house asunder while the coyote hid out under strong, familiar stone.
He none the less sat with ease, shrugging off the bow, quiver, and bag into a large pile at his side. Nude as he was, Barry’s pants seemed silly. Of course as Zeke had told his sister, he was a savage. Had he not known the names and meanings of war-paint, he might have worn it daily. His fur, naturally deviating between red and gold and black, was enough color for him now.
The Aquila blinked at the admittance and leaned back, pulling his feet up and onto the table. “Shit,” he cursed mildly, shaking his head. “That was a pretty dumb thing to do. How old are you?” Yet as he watched the darker wolf answer him, he found that his gaze was elsewhere. Zeke turned his head, and found the reason why. “Oh whoa,” he said, suddenly excited. “I haven’t seen anything like that in years.”
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