Don't Blame the Moon

Levent Kartal · 01-25-2012, 08:45 PM

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Word Count :: 446

The trio had the road all to themselves for a while, and though he was a creature who fed on social interaction, Levent preferred this. Umut seemed to startle around unfamiliar canines, and with most of his attention set to comforting the horse, he knew he wouldn’t be as able to defend himself if brigands attacked. A free hand drifted up to the pouch attached to his shoulder, one that contained a few good throwing knives in case he did need to scatter foes at a distance. He tried not to follow that train of thought for long.

Wilson scampered ahead at one point, ears pricked and white tail sweeping barely off the ground behind him. He returned, his tail raised high with confidence as a mouse dangled from his jaws, and the wolf glanced at him with good humor. However, before doing anything else, the cat twitched his tail in the direction ahead of them, indicating that someone else was there. And, sure enough, it was not long before the scent of cigarette smoke burned Levent’s nostrils—not entirely unpleasant, since he smoked socially.

When they approached the other wolf—a muscular silver-rust male, pleasing to the eye—Levent slowed down to buy enough time to gage the other’s reaction. The Eurasian trading routes were full of many types of characters, some violent and others friendly. His main concern was whether the stranger would chase his friend—but few who showed signs of civilization such as clothes would devolve into a slobbering cat-chaser without very fair warning. Nevertheless, his cream fingers flicked, and Wilson stepped close to his legs.

The tall stranger pulled the cigarette from his lips and greeted them in a language that Levent understood only smatterings of. Even so, he could be speaking Chinese and the intention of the greeting would come across.

The Turkish merchant flashed a bright grin at the other wolf, dipping the front half of his body in a low bow. It might have been seen as mocking to those who actually held authority in these lands, but the exaggeration was a move of playfulness on the part of the brown male. He never took anything seriously, after all—at least on the outside.

“Merhaba,” Levent Kartal returned in his own tongue, rising and quickly putting a comforting hand on the sooty buckskin when Umut tried to back away from the newcomer. “What is a Romani doing away from his caravan?” he went on, though the lightness of his tone suggested no prejudice or disapproval. He had dealt with the gypsies often through trades, though it had been a while since he’d last seen a group pass through.

table and manip by raze; template by kitty

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