Green ocean on the horizon

Wayne McCoy · 11-18-2011, 10:43 PM

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The wolf explained that he was uncomfortable around groups, and mention of his childhood caused awkwardness to pervade the air—at least around Wayne. He never knew what to do when someone brought their past up, so he simply let it be. Some wolves were talkers—like Dixie—and would spill whatever they wanted.

He did nod in agreement, however. “I’ve been a loner for a long time myself,” he said quietly. “I had family, and I had my best friend, but it’s still strange bein’ close to so many other folks.” He paused then glanced over his shoulder reflexively, back toward the packlands. “I’m a member of the new pack that sprang up, Casa di Cavalieri.” He was sure that his southern drawl shaped the foreign words humorously, though he was careful to speak slowly enough that the pronunciation wasn’t completely butchered. He’d taken to calling it “Casa” for short, though, just like everyone else.

The stranger explained where he was headed then produced a painting from his bag, one that Wayne mulled over before grinning. “That’s a mighty fine piece of work,” he remarked honestly, nodding his approval. “I couldn’t ever hope to make something like that.” He paused thoughtfully, the smile fading but still warm. “You know, there’s a pack not far from us—Cercatori d’Arte or somethin’ along those lines, that’s full of artists like you. Might want to give ’em a visit.”

He didn’t know much about the pack other than they valued art and trade, but it seemed like it would be as good a place as any for the fellow to fit in—if he was ever inclined to join a pack, of course. He shrugged quickly, awkwardly, then rose on all fours and wagged his tail once—spraying the last few drops that clung stubbornly to his thick pelt. “I wouldn’t mind followin’ you to the seaside. Too pretty of a day to waste mopin’ around by yourself, right?”

He chuckled and looked the timber over. “Name’s Wayne McCoy.”

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