How Loud Are the Drums of War?

Ephraim Fisher · 10-18-2011, 08:51 AM

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Ephy has actually eaten a man before. >> Anyway, Armis still ain't dead so others can have fun with him if they wish; you can assume he got out of the blanket.

Word Count → 500

Ephraim paced around at the back of the cottage, dark ears flattened against his dreadlocked head and body tense. He would have done more to assist Sky when she’d been struck by the Guardian, but there was only so much he could have done without igniting too much retaliation. After all, he was one of the few expendable hostages. AniWaya alone would miss him for his free labor; he had no pack to call home, no Crimson Dreams or Cour des Miracles or Cercatori d’Arte. While the death of other prisoners would bring more hatred onto the Tribe and Maska, he was vulnerable. He didn’t care too much about himself normally, but his survival drive was stronger than anything—and he was afraid of what he’d become if he were threatened. He’d killed many before.

Sky had disappeared under a blanket, and he sent a troubled frown in her direction, wondering if the pain from her punched eye had finally subdued her after her displays of defiance and staring and enough cackling that made Eph’s giggles seem tame. He sighed and looked away—then did a double take, wondering if her shape had changed. He quickly turned his head and covered his mouth to keep from smiling or giggling, adding an arm around his round stomach so he looked nauseated instead of in proud hysterics.

Armis, the Guardian stationed inside the cottage to keep watch on the prisoners, had his attention only on Sky. They went into another round of arguing, and Ephraim waited for what would come next. It was not long before a brown shape leaped out of the blanket, kicking it back in his direction, where he snatched it without a second thought. The secui-formed woman struck at the timber wolf, and Ephraim quickly moved around to the other side of the cabin, keeping along the wall.

Once he was behind the commotion, he glanced at Armis locked in combat with Sky, giggled, and tossed the blanket. It managed to cover the Guardian’s head, and while the man could have easily whipped it off, the eunuch followed through by grabbing it around the edges to keep the man’s sight restrained. He wasn’t sure if he had spared Sky from any damage in the time it’d taken to sneak around, but for now the timber was helpless. It would be a matter of time before his struggling ripped through the blanket—especially if he carried a knife—but until then, Ephraim dipped his head down and bit.

There was a yowl from under the blanket, and with jaws wetted by blood, the old man lifted his head and howled. It was more than a battle cry; it was a call of the wild. He had prey, he had meat, and he had transformed from the giggly, pudgy man the other prisoners had known. Pinning the Guardian under his weight, taking advantage of the time before the man’s claws finally ripped through the fabric, he took another chunk out.

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