Word Count » +3
He listened, his black ears high and his eyes and face impassive. Enkiel was not the sort who showed his emotions, though he felt things just as others did—if perhaps on another level. The jackal had detached himself from almost all emotions, and while things had fought to bring them back (namely, Sa’adat) those same things had left him as his family had. Becoming attached hurt. Perhaps that was why he did not show things or even think himself capable of feeling as others did.
Enkiel lapped at his own tea, the warm liquid easing his throat. Even though it did not exhaust him to work on patients, it had been a long day and he was nearing dehydration. Still, the tea would help; it also kept him busy while he listened. She was a loner, and she disliked the idea of following a leader blindly. When he was certain she had concluded, he lowered the bowl and began to speak. “I was not born here,” he said, though his accent likely betrayed such a thing. “My family hails from across the sea, and lived in a vast desert. It was my father’s blood that brought us to this land, and to Inferni.”
He paused. Hatred for them still rang loud within his heart, though he wished to be able to let go. Not even now, when they were ghosts. “Inferni, at its core, is bound by one family. It was never asked of me to do more than be willing to fight for this land; you will not be expected to do more than that unless you wish.” Enkiel’s hair, a flat and shadowy thing, spilled over his shoulders as he looked down at his hands. “For now, rest. Your wounds will take time to heal. You can decide when they do.”
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