hats off to the bull
#1
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The wounds had begun to knit, but still ached with hellfire. Ezekiel had treated them on his own, refusing to see Enkiel despite the questioning looks from the jackal. It was better this way. Daily, his mind cycled into dark places. A shadow grew in his heart and filled it with deep and terrible cold. It had been too long since the last attack. Sirius had only confirmed what Ezekiel dreaded, and from that, he had begun planning and scheming and imagining what waited for them beyond the borders. He had not left Inferni in weeks.

Ibsen sat at the entrance to his home, preening his glossy feathers. The raven had proven most helpful in these past few weeks and continued to report any strange signs. Most often they were nothing, but Ezekiel followed through with every report from every raven that showed mercenary allegiance to the clan. He was exhausted. His movements were short and agitated, even as he attempted the strange sort of meditation that came with cleaning his wounds.

A smoking stick lingered in his hand, filling the air with the sharp smell of tobacco and cloves. He had not remembered needing to smoke this much in years.

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#2
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art by crypsis

War was not what he had imagined. It was a trial of patience, of waiting and studying and preparing, with only instances of combat between. Max wondered if this was how it always had been. He was capable of reading on a rudimentary level and tried to look over the books in the Mansion, but after long hours he had only grown frustrated and found himself with more questions than answers. They had many books about war, and concepts of war, and some in unfamiliar languages, but none explained why it felt so strange to wait.

He traveled westward, following a worn trail in the tall grass. It was knee-high and thick, broken up by shorter areas where animals grazed or flowers blossomed. The Waste was a place that had been named poorly, though the hybrid supposed the lack of trees had something to do with it. His eyes trailed the distant borders and hoped to see something—anything—to break the monotony of this waiting game.

When he reached the caves a familiar scent drifted down through the air. Smoke. Max frowned. He had never known Ezekiel to be a smoker, except for passing whiffs of the scent on his fur, but this was now a habit. It was out of the norm, but war too, was out of the norm. The Hastati clambered up towards the leader’s home and was met with two sets of eyes. Ibsen was given only a moment of recognition before his focus turned to the man he called leader. “Hey Zeke,” he greeted, careful of his tone.

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#3
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Sirius had wounded him gravely, though not permanently. If he had been thinking, he might not have offered his arm as sacrifice. It made shooting painful. His skill had not been damaged by the effects of such savagery, but this came with experience. Ezekiel had been trained well by those before him, and it showed. Their fashioning of the boy into a weapon had been stunted by his emotional development, which was ripped asunder by one man’s act of violence. Without Corvus, there might never have been a demon inside of him. The de le Poer believed in demons, and he believed certainly that his life had been tainted by the touch of one such beast.

The noise of another drew him from his meditation, but the bandage was already applied over his arm by that point. Max was sight these days—he was filthy and huge, scarred by combat and looking more capable then Ezekiel had imagined. He wore a hatchet on his side and carried a bow and arrow. War suited him, Ezekiel thought darkly, and wondered if he had made a mistake in fashioning a version of himself out of a child lost in the wilderness.

“Max,” he replied curtly, and took a drag on the smoking stick. “All quiet, then?”

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#4
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art by crypsis

Smoke filled the air between them. The young man wondered if Ezekiel knew what he looked like these days—a savage scar graced his shoulder, and bandages covered his arms. Beyond this, though, his entire mannerism was different. Ezekiel had always been patient and smiling, but now he was short and irritable. There was a gleam in his eyes that was unnerving to the hybrid, and he disliked thinking that the man who led them had somehow faltered. This wasn’t Ezekiel’s doing, but there had been losses. No one had died yet, but…but was always there.

“Yeah,” he said, and shifted uncomfortably on the dirt outside of the cave’s mouth. “No one’s seen anything strange yet. The scouts are working hard—those shooting boxes are making hunting easier.”

It was meaningless talk. Ezekiel nodded, but said nothing further. His impassive behavior was equally foreign, and Max tensed. This motion seemed to finally spark something in his leader—the Aquila’s eyes narrowed, though he continued to smoke as if nothing had happened.

“What’s wrong with you?” Max asked boldly. “You went off on your own and came back beat half to hell and won’t tell anyone why. We need you here.”

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#5
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The shift was palpable. It was as clear to him as if Max had drawn a sword. Ezekiel rose to his feet from where he had been sitting, flicked ash from the cigarette, and studied the taller coyote as if he was a stranger. Hostility bled from his stiff-legged movements and his crinkled muzzle. “I am here,” he snapped, and his black tipped tail flicked behind him like a cat’s.

“I’ve been here long enough,” he went on. “To know what this clan needs. We feed on this.” A savage smile cut across his face, showing his teeth. They were yellowing with age, betraying four years of toil and sacrifice. It felt like an eon. “Inferni lives on blood, Max. We mount heads on pikes. You mounted a head,” the Aquila went on, and paced towards the young warrior. “This clan is capable of surviving if I leave it for a day.”

These were not answers. He could not answer. No one would understand why he needed to fight as he did, why the only man he trusted (if this was the word, and it did not feel right) was a madman King that would just as soon rip his throat out.

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#6
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art by crypsis

Even now, Max tried to read Ezekiel has he had been taught. The concept of speaking through combat was one thing he understood, and the subtler motions that others missed were not lost on him. He was not fluent in it, just as he was not fluent in the tongue of horses or birds. Ezekiel was more capable then he was in all of these aspects. Max tried so hard to advance, to reach higher levels, but he was stunted by the needs of his more important roles. Fighting was what led him on. Destruction was what led him on. He could not escape himself.

The white dog bristled as Ezekiel closed the distance between them, but he did not move to defend himself. This was not a fight. It was a war of words and of wills, and even now, Max knew he would lose. He could not break the Aquila down as easily as he simplified other things.

“We’re at war,” he argued. “You’re our leader. You don’t let anyone leave alone but it’s okay for you to do it—what if you die, Ezekiel? What then?”

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#7
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“Is that what this is about?” The Aquila barked, smoke billowing from his mouth. He shook his head and stalked towards the slope below his den, red feet kicking up dried dust. Tension rippled through his well-muscled back, illuminating dark patterns formed by the cape of black fur along his shoulders and spine. While he was a golden boy once, like his father before him the dark truth of their heritage came through. A bloodline of madmen and savages made up his lineage, and damned him to follow it.

Ezekiel rounded on Max, but did not approach him. He did not trust himself. “If I die,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Then Myrika and Vesper will lead. They are capable together. You and Helotes will serve them as warriors and the clan will go on. One person is no more important here than the group—understand that,” he emphasized, and paused to breathe in smoke. His hand trailed up to the metal at his throat, touched it briefly, and fell.

“These people came for my father,” Ezekiel went on darkly. “They believe themselves righteous. Holy,” he hissed. “They think we’re beasts who should be ripped from the earth.”

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#8
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art by crypsis

He watched, and he listened. There was truth in these words, in the way they were spoken. Ezekiel was furious, he was exhausted, he was all the things that one would expect from a man cracking under pressure. Max still did not wish to see that the man who had all but raised him was not infallible. It was terrible and he knew it was inevitable. No man was a god.

Vaguely, he imagined that the truth of Ezekiel’s plans were not simply planned but logical. He did not know how well the Aquila had worked on grooming the red-haired woman, how much subterfuge had gone into seeing that there were plans in place and in motion for just in case. There was something unnerving about the concept. He wondered if Ezekiel had contemplated his death long ago and dismissed the thought.

Max’s face darkened and his breathing became slow and forced. “They’re monsters,” he echoed, and thought of his own father.

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#9
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The truth of his plans were things that even Ezekiel did not wish to dwell on. He was a greater pretender then he wished to admit. There had been plans afoot since the first day he stood next to his father and took his title. Ezekiel was a man made for politics, but unwilling to carry them. Lying came naturally to him. Pretending was natural to him. Honesty too, was natural—but it was a warped honesty, one blanketed by cloak and dagger and the unspoken that came with such behavior.

He stilled and watched the boy quietly, well aware that Max was not speaking of the wolves alone. Slowly, Ezekiel approached him. One hand rose and came to the broad chest of the young man, pressed flat against the area where his heart lay. The Aquila felt Max stiffen under the touch and was glad for it. Even now, they needed vigilance from themselves. “You are a monster,” he echoed, and saw a flash of fear in the boy’s face.

“They are not,” the Aquila went on. “They are mortals. When the time comes for us to slaughter, I want you to show them what a real monster is.”

And he smiled savagely, withdrawing his hand. He touched the scars across his eye gently. “Even demons can be killed. We’re fighting men much less than that.”

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#10
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art by crypsis

If he had not listened to Ezekiel for most of his childhood, Max might of thought him mad. Their metaphors and pseudo-science of demonology and folklore were archaic effects of lives based around such mythology. They were driven by these ideas and held them tightly, well aware that they were based on some truth. Max knew what his father was. Ezekiel had nearly been killed by a Lord of Hell. How could they deny this unseen world now, then?

A hand touched him and Max instinctively stiffened. Touch was connected to combat for him and always had been. He disliked behind held, disliked being touched—he could not shake the memory of his mother’s too-hard blows or too-deep teeth. Abuse had fashioned him into a creature fearful of such things. Now, though, he was capable of fighting back. He was capable of hurting those who would hurt him.

Ezekiel’s words settled with him and helped to ease his doubts. This was the man he knew, if only raw and worn by the weight of days. These were familiar stories.

“Are we going after them?” He asked, hopeful that this was the case. The waiting was madness, and it was a dull, grinding madness that he hated.

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#11
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Masks. He used masks to hide himself from everyone, even those closest to him. Ezekiel thought of his sister for the first time in days and dismissed the thought. He thought of Kastra, and found himself once more lingering on those late-night discussions they had held. He thought of the way she had looked when he gave her the necklace, of her sharp tongue and savage eyes, and how sometimes (and rarely) he saw them soften for him. These were people he had come to know without masks, just as he knew Max now. The boy was a hunter, a warrior, a man who would kill for him. That much was clear.

“Soon,” Ezekiel said, and looked eastward. It was darkening with the retreating sun, though dusk was not yet upon them. A dull drone of insects and birds filled the space between their land and the forest. “This isn’t just our war.” At this, he rubbed at the bandage over his arm. He thought of Sirius’ words, of the blood spilled between them, and knew it was the truth. God had brought them together for a purpose, and in his heart, Ezekiel knew what that dark reason was.


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#12
[html]




art by crypsis

There was a cryptic answer in the Aquila’s words, but Max understood its meaning. He had not gone to Salsola for nothing. Alone in the north their two kingdoms were ruled by coyotes and made up of those with the bloodline. Lykoi’s lived in the Thistle Kingdom—they would not be immune to the hatred of the men who came with God’s sign and steel. A terrible truth was made of this knowledge, but the word genocide was unknown to him, and the concept was vague still.

Satisfied in part, Max let out a breath he had not realized he was holding. The Hastati looked out to the east and the distant shape of the mansion, half-hidden by the overgrown trees that surrounded it, and sorely wished that so many did not make the building their home. It seemed folly to him now, and he was glad to live deeper in their claim.

Without another word he left the Aquila, trailing towards his own home. He would sleep until nightfall and pick up a patrol when it was dark. His fur would be a beacon in the night, but the hybrid welcomed the chance for combat. Max welcomed the chance to show what sort of monster he was.

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