in the devil's territory

[Shakadyn]

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He laughed. Melodic or not, it was a welcoming and welcomed sound, and nevertheless he just couldn't resist. She was as pretty as ever, and such a pretty face struck so surprised could play a chord in anyone, whether from simple appreciation or vindication from having walked a path paved by ridicule from those very faces. And of course, when she began to laugh too, he knew she found him as familiar as he had found her. Off to a good start this morning, then. "To recognize a cycle should have meant to be released from it" — oh, how he knew the feeling, how it loved to torment him — but some cycles, like the turning of the moon and the turning of one's shape, could not be helped. So it was that he recognized his emotional cages and, though it was unhealthy of him, remained complacent: the chronic spiraling of his mind (up or down? An unknowable thing!) and the purple haze over his eyes were so very not condusive to sorting out such problems. Even worse, despite himself, he'd almost let contemplation take hold, but the tiny girl's interruption had proven timely and soothing both. A distraction was what he needed, and, if the way she'd kept gazing upwards was any indication, that's what she needed, too. The night, if you could still call this night, was frightfully but pleasantly calm, especially for January. No wind stinging his nose or ruffling his fur — he took care of that last himself, thick fluff on his neck and tail puffing out, full of all the joviality and excitement of a fat cat presented with fine wild-caught salmon. "Me," he replied, grandiose, feigning dramatic pride as always, just barely looking down his nose at her for all their similarities in dimunitive stature. Birds of a feather had to stick together, after all. "Poe," he had to pause only a moment to recall her name, simple and poetic (no pun intended), "darling, good evening!" Er — "Or rather, good morning." He brushed strong black claws through his fringe (which hung, atypically, over his unscarred eye), strong black claws that came in handy more for toying with wires in old human compounds than they did for hunting. Electric being more interesting to him than food — hmph! Some wolf he was. Some wolf, indeed.

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