I'm not saying I'm one for violence

Max Klein · 07-15-2012, 02:07 PM

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(335) Yaaaaay Big Grin

Despite his adolescent fury, even Max had to admit that Rémy had a set of skills well suited for the clan. It explained why Ezekiel had picked him up out in a blizzard or whatever it had been. Rémy was a man made for tracking; his skills in it were remarkable, enough so that he picked up on signs even a well-versed hunter might miss. He was talented with spices and stave combat, and Max had seen him hit a bird with a throwing knife. The coydog was in fact carrying all of these things—he held the stick so that it rested along the back end of his upper arm, a stance that looked relaxed. Training told Max otherwise. Woe to those who underestimated the length of oak or the black-mouthed dog that carried it.

He nearly ran into Rémy as the older man turned, ears high, and Max frowned and followed his gaze. The sour expression on his face shifted (but only slightly) at Sparrow’s arrival, though he didn’t return her greeting with anything more than a low grunt. His companion, on the other hand, was smiling toothily and already making a fuss about the matter.

“Oh cher, what a wonderful surprise! I thought I was gonna be stuck with dis here tahyo all by my lonesome. Allons!” he called, and gestured for them both. “Tree always betta fo’ huntin’, we gonna round us up sometin'.” He eased back into the lead, long legs giving him a fair stride to—as Max suspected—put some distance between himself and the other two. The white coydog grunted again and looked over at Sparrow. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want,” he offered, and lifted one hand to gingerly brush his hair away from his fresh stitches. It was a subconscious gesture; up until now he had all but forgotten about them, but being around someone else—especially a girl—made him all too aware of how banged up he must have looked.

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