Lev will be fine, he apparently just likes being dramatic.
Levent was not a creature of routine; he did not meaningfully go and do the same thing every single day. His profession was one that encouraged improvising, scouring his surroundings for a chance opportunity to pounce at. In Europe, he’d been vigilant even when going on one trade route, so that if he overheard someone say that a certain fabric was coveted in Greece, he’d be able and willing to get that fabric and head to Greece. Even when he landed in North America, he’d been searching desperately for means to an end, and didn’t waste time standing back and saying no when a trading pack landed itself in his lap as a place (he thought) to simply store his goods and provide a little security.
That was then. Now the Turkish wolf had fallen into a routine: and an extremely dreary one. He’d wake up in an uncomfortable position in some dilapidated building, take his mare out to graze and wish desperately that she had more than grass to sate her, and then meander into the swath of woods covering central Nova Scotia to hunt and observe and feel goddamn sorry for himself. After Wilson thought that his companion had felt sufficiently sorry for himself (Lev never did), Wilson would nudge Levent back to the shelter of the abandoned city. Most of the time the sun was setting by that point, but sometimes there’d still be daylight when they came home, and these days Wilson encouraged Levent to think about what he was doing, and Levent would refuse, and Levent would spend the last of daylight poring over his holy book and praying that something would change his life for him.
Today was one of the latter, and the trio of odd characters was just entering the city, the horse’s hooves clopping loudly on the cracked asphalt with the wolf leading her and the cat trotting importantly before the both of them. The wind blew the celadon strip of fabric from his headband under his chin, and he absently reached up to pull it off, freeing his dark hair to blow around his face. He stuffed the cloth into his pocket and looked wearily at the skyline ahead, silent as a ghost.
Suddenly, however, Wilson froze before him; Mai nearly trampled on him and reared for a moment, a flurry of angry snorts telling the cat just what she thought of his inane behavior, until Levent quieted her with a word and a touch.
“What is it, Wilson?” the fallen merchant asked, looking down at his friend’s flattened ears and bristling fur. The look the dark sandy-yellow eyes gave him at last made his heart leap in his throat, and he took five steps forward, staring at the athletic grey and tawny shape. He whispered an oath, unable to move, and presently fainted in the middle of the street.
His last thought was that she would be pissed at him for passing out again.
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