Broken Leash

Anatole Aston · 02-29-2012, 01:03 PM

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There was a very good reason that Anatole did not think of this man as threatening—he was a full foot shorter than the tall man, but it was obvious he outweighed him. Even underfed he would have outweighed him; the doggish thing was subservient, the mark of all the domesticated animals that did not remember their roots. Spitz dogs in the north had been different; but they were dogs who had learned well of natures law of club and fang long before the fall of man. He had seen no such animals south; manners and morals had turned them weak.

Green eyes trailed over the man’s form, noting the scars, and assessing them as marks of proof of this subservience. Even he, who had been through many a fight, bore only a few scars—the most notable those under his eye, left from the cat that had infected him. In time they too might heal, something he sorely hoped would be the case.

Behind him, the white horse nickered lowly and his ears turned back to her. She was hungry and needed rubbed down, and given her condition, she could not be forced to stand around. “Well don’t just stand around,” he grunted, and led the mare into the barn. Her stall was large, likely intended for foaling. “Help me with her, will you? And tell me what you’re doing here while we work—you didn’t come here on your own, did you?”

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