bottle of red, bottle of white

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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The sable coyote had wanted to speak with Jefferson on many an occasion, but it always seemed the war-torn authority figure had busied himself with something much too focused to allow Razekiel a moment to speak and try to raise the old man's spirits. Razekiel was not much younger than he, but it seemed the experiences the Patriarch had endured in his life had made him seem and act all the older; the coyote knew it weighed on his shoulders and soul alike, and that leading a pack in addition was only wearing the one-eyed leader down more and more with each passing day. Razekiel had only been in his midst less than a month, and yet the Lykoi felt unbelievable compassion for the man. Had he only a second to enjoy the sun's rays, or the rush of the waves at the Father's shore, perhaps he would have been able to breathe easier... but Jefferson had no time.

Or, perhaps he did. Exchanging marijuana for a simple cigarette that day, Razekiel detected the old man's scent in the air not far from the ranch he resided in, though it led him much past the building and its newly renovated roof. At the side of the southern Mirror Lake Razekiel found him, head in his solitary hand, silent as a stone in the wind. The soft spring breeze picked up, allowing relief from the slight humidity and the sun above, and with a puff of his cigarette the coyote approached.

"You look older every time I see you, man," the prince said quietly, one hand collecting the tobacco stick from his lips, the other in a pocket.

[Jefferson Soul]

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And perhaps he was. The spirit he possessed when he was younger — even a year or two when he first started as a Valley member, as that was all he could remember of an olden time of his life — had been lost to him for a long time. Jefferson had never been one of "youth"; Maluki perhaps, before he had gone batshit insane, but never the individual that named himself Jefferson. He had only known war and conflict, at first only external, then only internal. Jefferson had not been involved in combat much over the years, and yet it was all he knew, for his faded memories and undying guilt not once let him sleep a full night, nor leave the dizzying whirlwind of thoughts that plagued his very being.

The cyclops raised his eye from his hand slowly, not to Razekiel but at the gentle movement of the lake. Hand over his mouth, he considered the statement a long while, once again lost to the cage of torment that was his mind, before finally managing a bare shrug.

"Maybe I am," the scarred man replied, shaking his head. The smoke of the coyote's cigarette clogged his senses and burnt at his eyes, like they would an old man, and one of the Patriarch's knees ached in anticipation of an evening thunderstorm in the wake of the humidity. Where had he even been in his thoughts when Razekiel approached? Now dispelled, he could not even focus on whatever had troubled him before, but knew the next thing on the list would substitute soon enough.

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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Straw eyes scouring the surface of the water, Razekiel held a personal silence for a long moment after Jefferson spoke, remembering to thank the dear Mother for granting such a lovely day upon them, and did not spare her a little hopefulness in his prayer as he gazed on the faraway indigo clouds, threatening a brilliant shower and light show for the later evening.

Refocusing his thoughts, the coyote breathed in tobacco and released smoke through teeth and nostrils, relishing the spice and taste as it exited his senses. Would such a thing soothe the scarred man's problems as well? As he had done before with a joint, Razekiel plucked the cigarette from his teeth and held it down to Jefferson in the grass. He knew quite well the Patriarch would only ignore him or shoot another deadly look his way, but perhaps the motion would be appreciated nonetheless. When the Patriarch did not budge, the coyote sighed and moved to retract the offering — only to find the cigarette pulled from his fingers at the very last second.

Straw eyes wide — or, Razekiel's version of it, which was only opening them to a normal state — the hippie observed as the Patriarch gathered the cigarette in his remaining fingers and tucked it between his lips in a matter of seconds, expelling the smoke after a deep and almost practiced inhalation, adding a single and subtle cough at the end.

Straightening his rose-tinted glasses, Razekiel turned his gaze to the lake once more, lips upturning in a slight smile. "You've run this joint for two, three years now, yeah? Long enough to take this baby home an' go all the way with 'er, man."

[Jefferson Soul]

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What possessed him to take that cigarette, he did not know. Jefferson had never been a man for drugs; he barely touched alcohol as it was, though he'd always known he was the prime type to need such a release. It was not only the difficulty of obtaining the stuff, really; Jefferson had decided long ago that he would not spend his time repenting for his sins intoxicated and making the process easier. No, he had killed and raped in his time — he did not deserve an easier penance in the least. The cyclops knew honor, if nothing else: If he was going to truly make up for all he had done and earn himself even slight peace of mind by the time he laid himself to rest, he would make all efforts to do it. He would endure the full pain every step of the way, never tempted by the numbing possibilities of alcohol and drugs.

And yet he had taken the cigarette — something he had not once touched nor tasted in his amnesiac life — and without thought nor hesitation pushed it between his teeth and breathed. Smoke and tobacco swirled in his throat and tongue; the taste was awful, truly terrible, and yet as he passed seconds inhaling his shoulders lowered, their tension melting away. The ache in his knee subsided, the thoughts in his mind slowed to a pace he could follow. As he finally released the smoke back to the air, it caught in his throat and lungs and burned; the cough that resulted was as low and subtle as he could make it, and the man kept his eyes low as they watered. They burnt, though it was a good pain, like the drawing of blood to ensure one could still feel.

What Razekiel said next Jefferson had to deeply consider, for as always the coyote spoke in riddles that in the end meant very little. The smoking cigarette still between his fingers, the Patriarch bent over the pool of water and gazed into his swirling, moving reflection. Such age lingered in his old eyes, even the one that never opened. "I've had enough of 'going all the way,'" he expelled in a sigh, voice hoarse. He could not imagine doing such things with anyone anymore, not after Geneva had gone off and probably died, and Pripyat pretty much hated him.

"I don't know how much longer I can do this," he mumbled, "but my members aren't old enough or wise enough to know how to run a pack yet." And he would not risk his son under the leadership of someone who didn't know how to run the job.

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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For Jefferson to have accepted a gift from the coyote that knew he didn't like was strange enough; for the Patriarch to have smoked from it was stranger, but knowing the gruff, scarred male was opening up to him was possibly the strangest yet. Razekiel sensed from the old man that Jefferson was not one to allow strangers to invade his walls, though the coyote supposed he was not quite a stranger anymore; he had been there a few weeks, at least, and proved himself to be of no threat. He was not the Lykoi his mother and brothers and sisters were, and the sable man found great comfort that Jefferson had managed to decide the same of him.

They were similar in age as well, though the few years' difference was obvious. Razekiel had turned four years old half a week ago; youth was still on his side, while Jefferson was on the route to some sort of retirement — or needed to be, anyway. There was only a two-year difference between them, but perhaps Razekiel's life of peace and love had earned him more youth than most four-year-olds, and Jefferson's tumultuous life had consequently made him older.

"There's a real groovy pad north, northwest of here I wish everyone could see," the prince smiled, the sun content in his dreamy eyes. "Real souped up place, man. All the Mother's sun, the Father's blue sea, the mountains and the city..."

He released a grand, charmed sigh, slowly lowering the arms he'd raised in sheer passion. "You could take a break there, man: wiz, fuck, catch some Z's... It's real nifty, man, out of sight. I'm gonna get people and bring 'em there and we'll all just chill out a while and love each other."

[Jefferson Soul]

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After a pause, Razekiel began musing aloud about an area up north he admired, speaking with a passion Jefferson found rare to hear. Every individual had their likes and dislikes, their skills and their deficiencies, but none spoke with more zest and heart than Razekiel when it came to the natural world around them. True, Jefferson himself found comfort in nature and the good green earth, but his appreciation for it was like a mustard seed to an apple compared with the dark-furred Lykoi at his side. Perhaps it was the cigarette rushing relaxation through his veins, or perhaps it was the fact that the scarred man was having a decent conversation with someone he admired in a way, but a slight smile touched at his lips and eased his one-eyed gaze.

The prospect Razekiel had to offer tempted him terribly; to be left alone again sounded wonderful, but it had been a long time since the cyclops had fended entirely for himself. He could not leave Phoenix Valley behind for a break with none to cover for him, nor could he "vacation" from the worries in his mind anyway. Jefferson dare not desert Pripyat like Geneva had, intentional or not. His father was all Pripyat had left, regardless if he had been the reason for Jefferson's lost arm.

The one-eyed, one-armed man replaced the cigarette and breathed from it again, finding himself oddly at peace with the activity. Never before had he smoked, and yet it came naturally and painlessly. He sputtered not once after the first initial cough, and with each second the stick touched his tongue he grew to admire the taste. "It's not as easy as you think, getting people together and keeping them from killing each other," the cyclops said, a chuckle at the sentence's end. "I've been lucky to keep this place peaceful. We had a lot of issues with Inferni, years ago, and I took care of the idiot attacking the women here a couple weeks ago."

He shook his head, frown returning. "I can't just go on 'break.' There's too many people that need me and no one to take over. I've failed them enough already; I'm not failing them again."

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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Even with the cigarette there to relax him, Razekiel sensed an unending tension in the Patriarch's words, as if every sound that slipped from his tongue needed argument and challenging, as if nothing he could say was good enough to be spoken. This Jefferson was a tragic fellow, the coyote knew, but none were beyond help; it would take encouragement and time to himself perhaps, but the old Patriarch could find peace of mind if he truly wished for it. The problem was, Razekiel saw, that Jefferson had given up on such a thing. What had happened to trouble him so? He spoke of Inferni tension, and hinted at possibly murder — something the coyote briefly screwed his face at, unknown to the Valley man — but these things were natural for most creatures like they. Were there more sins on his soul?

Was he only multiplying them by forcing himself into servitude?

He spoke the truth, however, and Razekiel nodded sagely in reply. Seeing the cyclops continuing to puff at the cigarette, the coyote tucked into the satchel at his hip and searched for another homemade tobacco stick as Jefferson continued, his words increasingly saddening as he rambled on. Finding a stick, the coyote pulled a lighter from his pocket, clicked at it and calmly lit the cigarette.

"My family lives in Inferni," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "They've lost their way, man."

Razekiel missed them, though. His mother was still there, surely, along with Gabriel and Anselm and perhaps even his daughters. He would visit them, in time, surely before he managed to organize his group in the north; the coyote's heart swelled at the very thought of his daughters accompanying him there. He rubbed at his neck a moment, stuffing the cigarette in his mouth until his hesitance to speak subsided.

Shrugging his shoulders, the straw-eyed man held his gaze on the water. "What if I take them?"

[Jefferson Soul]

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The cyclops had known all along that Razekiel had originated in Inferni one way or another, but the leader was not so stubborn to believe that all claiming the Lykoi name had to be bad. In fact, Jefferson was rather fond of a few of them; the one-eyed idiot had saved Kaena's life, she who was the matriarch of the name, though he had not heard from her since, and Razekiel was slowly growing on him. The one-armed man would never forget the night he rescued Addison from the red-eyed Halo Lykoi, however, and like the Poer family, he accepted that they had their ups and downs. Certainly most of the Sadiras he'd met, the family he'd been born into as a Soul, were inherently good — Iskata, Kansas, Mew — but his half-brother Haku had been under their name as well.

Razekiel seemed to have fixed within himself whatever wrongs his parents had tried to breed into him as a Lykoi child, or so the Patriarch believed. Turning to look up at him, the cyclops stared rather indifferently at the small chickadee that had come to land on the coyote's shoulder, silent and seemingly unnoticed by Razekiel altogether. Jefferson snorted; he could not bring himself to imagine a coy like Razekiel doing anyone harm, but the Patriarch knew better than to trust too soon.

A tattered ear twitched, and he spoke flatly. "What do you know about leading a pack?"

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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"I've been around, man," Razekiel began, puffing a moment at the tobacco as he sorted his thoughts, unsure what to bring to light first. He'd never led a pack, no, nor had he ever had reason or inspiration to; Razekiel had always thought himself a follower rather than a leader, but he did not exactly 'follow' in line with what was considered the norm anywhere he went. His beliefs were simply too unique to simply stand idly by while the coyote pretended to be someone he wasn't for the sake of membership in a pack; thus, he had come to decide perhaps he needed to take leadership into his own hands for once. He did not think himself incapable, after all.

"Been part of a lot of of things," he said, straw eyes sliding to the side to notice the small songbird hopping about on his shoulder; as if completely accustomed to such a thing, the coy raised a finger and gently scratched at its little black-capped head, his gaze returning to the lake water as he further browsed his thoughts. "Grew up in Inferni, my old lady was the leader... When I came back last year, she and my brother were still headin' the fort, man. I cruised that channel for a while, then I got blitzed in a snowstorm a few months ago up in the mountains."

Noticing a rather blasé look on the Patriarch's face pointed at him, Razekiel gurgled a laugh and organized his thoughts further. "What I'm tryin' to say, man, is that I've called lots of places home since the sun birthed me on this land, you dig? Inferni, Juniper Peace, Aube de Musique... and then I spent 'lotta time by myself soakin' in the Great Mother in all her glory, man, it was wonderful. I've never led a soul, man, but I'm thinkin' maybe it's finally time I stop lettin' myself be a follower, yeah?"

[Jefferson Soul]

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At first Jefferson did not find himself fazed whatsoever by the hippie's drawling words, excusing them only as a sinless man's inexperienced musings. Razekiel knew nothing about leading, knew nothing about giving direction to those around him, though as he spoke, the cyclops came to realize that perhaps he did not need to know such things at an immediate time. The Lykoi preached love and peace and an organization beneath him that admired and shared in the same. Would much direction be needed for such a thing? If members already worked themselves towards such a peaceful, anti-conflicting goal, is it possible that they would simply live in harmony without a need for hierarchy and leadership above them?

He began to internally dismiss Razekiel's mumblings once more, until one of the pack names mentioned caught his tattered ears. Green eye widened — perhaps even the blind eye opened — as the Patriarch soaked in that name and watched images flash past his one-eyed vision. Razekiel did not know a thing, did not know the association Jefferson had with that French pack, Aube de Musique, and for one subtly panicked moment the cyclops glanced scoured the area behind and around them, as if spies hid in their midst.

Spies, being his children. He had made peace with Gaël and Heath to some extent. Wasn't that enough? Why did that damned Aurélie and the pack that survived her still haunt him? Hadn't the loss of his eye to her horrid mate been enough compensation? Hadn't his time as a subservient Patriarch earned him respite from the guilt of his crimes?

Shaken, Jefferson dipped his head, tattered ears flattened in a rare display. Razekiel silenced at the sight, the coyote's upbeat question hanging dead and unanswered in the air. After a long moment, the great Valley titan heaved a sigh to dismiss some of his troubles, and from the depths of his throat words finally crawled through. "Aube du Musique," he mumbled, eye focused on his scarred, gruesome reflection. "How are they?" He would not identify his association. No... that was only for he and his children to know now.

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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At Jefferson's growl of a voice, Razekiel sensed tension rise in the little songbird's form; it quivered beneath his fingertip as if listening to the horrid roar of a monster, and at the coyote perked his dark ears and covered it with his hand. Beneath his palm the chickadee balled up and ceased its anxiety, sheltered by the hippie's sanctuary as if the coyote were an appropriate shield against such a scarred and disfigured beast. Certainly Razekiel did not think himself as such, though perhaps the little bird did; he was only a man of the earth and sky, blessed by the Great Mother herself, in ways Jefferson would never be.

The coyote's smile faded quickly. In that voice he sensed a darkness left unidentified, evidenced further by the chickadee's quivering. The Valley Patriarch had a connection to the peaceful French pack of central Canada, but how? The coyote hardly expected the scarred man to be capable of such a beautiful language — in fact, it might be heresy for such a creature to speak something so lovely, but Razekiel was not about to mention that. The coyote watched him a long moment, silent; somewhere above the birds dispersed from the treetops in a flurry of chatter and feathers, and suddenly the coyote began to realize exactly what made Jefferson the grim old man he was.

"They are well," he said unsurely at first, then burst back into his normal optimism, though forced, to hide what he had silently learned from the Great Mother's whispers of advice in the world around him. "Oh, yeah, totally groovy, man! We were both bummin' out up in the mountains when that badass snowstorm hit, so I got to chill out — ahahaha, chill out, it was a snowstorm, you get it?! — with 'em till Mother thought it best we leave and moved the weather for us. Went back to righteous Quebec with 'em, you dig? Pretty big pack, lots of wolves. Real cherry, man, I was real jazzed to stick with 'em. Guess they were lookin' for a couple of kids up in the mountains, but went home after. I guess they're kinda scared of these parts, man. Don't blame 'em."

[Jefferson Soul]

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Perhaps Jefferson should have expected no different — it had been years since Maluki ravaged through Aube de Musique that first time and attacked Aurélie, years since Thomas was killed, years since Maluki's children had left the pack that graciously raised them as orphans. Where were they now? Perhaps they had been the ones the pack had been searching for; without parents, who else were to worry about them? Jefferson himself had tried, but they had denied him; Gaël had made peace but disappeared once more, Heath had refused him and pushed him away, and Miriette had simply disappeared to her own devices. He was their father in name only; he would never serve as anything more. Had Razekiel met them? Did the coyote know where they were, or how they were doing? Were they alive? Healthy?

He could not stand to think of such things much longer. A gruff shake of the head and such troubles were dismissed from his mind, purged yet dawdling in the back of his consciousness as they always did, weighing his guilt further as was the norm.

"Razekiel," the Valley Patriarch said finally, turning his one-eyed gaze to the quivering, sheltered chickadee at first and to the coyote next. How nice — even Mother Nature hated him. Perhaps that was how it should be. "Why are you really bringing this idea up with me?"

[Razekiel Lykoi]

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Would he be self-absorbed to admit it? Greedy, perhaps? Though it was rare to touch, doubt held back his words; Mother worked to build his confidence, returning songbirds to the canopies above and bringing a gentle, warm spring breeze over the lake. Breathing in deep, her warmth filled his lungs and heart, and for a moment he closed his eyes to simply bask in the moment, in the feeling that the Great Mother believed in him. It was what he should — no, must do. The chickadee pecked at his fingers and tweeted briefly, hopping about, suddenly filled as well with the inspiration of Mother Earth.

"The Great Mother wishes it," he smiled, straw eyes contented and relaxed behind the rose lenses. "She sees potential in these people... in this pack you brought up, man. They're strong, strong as a bear, big guy, but they can't meet what she sees in them here anymore."

A pause. "She thinks it's time for you to rest, too. Maybe... you've done your time, man. You did well."

The chickadee chirped and fluttered down to the ground, peering up at the cyclops as if awaiting an answer.

[Jefferson Soul]

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No, Jefferson did not believe in a higher deity — especially not "mother nature" or any other earth deities Razekiel believed in — but the cyclops realized he breathed relief at such words regardless. Was it that he had done "well"? Was it the fact that others, palpable or otherwise, were meeting the same conclusions he was about Phoenix Valley and his reign over it? Jefferson knew age and exhaustion, though not that of a truly old leader; he was still young compared to others, and he could manage continuing his leadership.

It was recent events that had whittled at his spirit, however, and drove him against such a concept. Jefferson had rid of Lucifer; he had avenged Valley women he had ravaged, but the cyclops knew he was still no hero. He should never be seen as such. Geneva was gone, possibly dead, and his son felt both guilt and some warped form of hatred towards his father as well. Alaine had been right: He was falling apart at the seams, and he was not sure how much longer he would remain intact. Was there are point of no return even for Jefferson, who had been past that point even before his memory had been wiped?

He was tired: That was the only way to describe it. Tired of responsibility, tired of leadership and others relying on him. Jefferson was a loner at heart — he had always been meant to be, and perhaps his stay in Phoenix Valley was only a temporary sojourn. He could return to earlier days, left by his lonesome, left where he could not hurt nor harm anyone as Maluki had, where there would be no risk of it. He was doomed to loneliness, to isolation. That was his punishment... that was the penance for his crimes.

Perhaps Razekiel was right... or perhaps Jefferson had no choice at all. Fate toyed with the scarred man like putty in its fingers; he was only along for the ride, until the day fate decided he finally fit for a sinner's death and escape.

Jefferson looked down at the little chickadee, his gaze and heart alike hollowed yet pained. Decisions at his door, the man reached careful fingers for it, and the bird did not flee; instead, it hopped atop his hand. Jefferson raised it to his gaze, watched it a moment, and sighed. Perhaps... perhaps it was time after all.

"All right," the scarred man said slowly, raising his hand to watch the chickadee pick up and take off, disappearing into the distant sky. A moment's pause, then a sigh. He straightened his back and nodded to himself. "...Then tell me more of what you plan to do."