[M] [ro] we are our own wicked gods

Machidael Lykoi · 07-15-2012, 08:09 AM

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WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Setting	Location	Form	NPCs
Location: Saint John Date: 15 July Weather: Warm, overcast Time: Night			Unknown wolf

(--)

Machidael is by me!

Nightfall found the rusty-hued jackal within the city limits. His bloody red eyes appraised the tall spires, and he wrinkled his muzzle at the strange way this land smelled. Though it was the throes of summer, he was almost cold. Thankful for his thick garments, the jackal shifted in his saddle and looked down at the palomino mare now serving as his mount. She was a far cry from Zahi, whom the fire-streaked hybrid still mourned. Where his old horse was sleek and proud and tall, this mare was old and spent and done.

Sebante had not wronged him, however -- though Machi had not spent a terrible amount of time around Freetown, he knew Seraht to be a finer example of the horses found there. Outside of Svantevit, it was a gamble, often with the buyer losing out. Seraht was at least sound of body and not lamed -- perhaps she might be rehabilitated to some semblance of quality. The cinnamon-hued jackal would do his best, and if it turned out she was useless -- well, he might trade her to some other fool, or he might kill her for meat. Either way -- there was still profit to be had in the pale golden horse, and so he did not begrudge Sebante.

Machi hunkered in his seat and pulled his clothes tighter, gripping the reins one-handed. How would he ever survive in winter here? He must find somewhere warm to live, and fill it with furs. Perhaps he could sleep through winter -- he did not know the word hibernate, but the concept appealed to him. This was not his homeland -- the desert and the damp Mediterranean climate suited him far better, but what could he do? He was here, and he would not brave another sea voyage again anytime soon.

Besides -- he wanted to meet other coyotes. They fascinated him. Machidael thought of himself as a jackal, but he knew of his coyote blood, and he'd found Sebante -- the only coyote amongst the crew -- the most attractive. And he'd heeded the man's words about the parallels between coyote and jackal: both spat upon by their larger cousin. Perhaps coyotes would feel the same about him, or perhaps they would prove to be a bunch of simpering fools, as well.

As the rust-hued hybrid guided his mount around the street's debris, his crimson eyes appraised the buildings around him, seeking for some kind of shelter. He was tired and it was time to rest. The city was filled with the scents of other canines, however, and the earthen-hued hybrid was wary of settling near others. He sniffed as his horse walked, occasionally reaching around to grip the shaft of his spear. It had to hang parallel to the horse, so it was in an awkward position and not as easily reached as it might have been.

Finally, there was an alley with a blockade of cars at one end. There were no fresh scents nearby, and the hybrid glanced this way and that, leaning forward over Seraht's neck. The horse snorted, and Machidael caught the source of her fear: old death, perhaps. Something long buried, though perhaps shallowly. His horse stopped her forward movement and shrank back, half-rearing. Machidael tried to push her forward again with a jab of his claws, but the horse refused him.

Barking a curse, the jackal yanked on her reins and drew her away from the alleyway. His curiosity waned as the distance between the alley and himself increased; he soon found himself investigating a long, low-slung building. There was a fresh scent about it, but it was days old. The ruddy hybrid dismounted and led his horse into the narrow door. His pack rattled against the doorframe and the jackal cursed again, stopping his horse and removing the pack from her saddle.

Once inside, the russet hybrid waited a moment for his eyes to adjust and peered around. The warehouse's floor was littered with old equipment and machinery, but he stood on a raised part of the floor, clear except for some old paper debris and a strange metal firepit, half-rusted and filled with old, cold ash. A set of stairs led to the second floor office, a room overhanging a quarter of the warehouse floor. Machidael moved toward the stairs, leaving his horse's reins to dangle where they were.

The stairs were reeking of canine scent, though it was not fresh, as with the scents outside. Sourly, Machi considered a moment before walking up the stairs, nudging the office door, already ajar, fully open with one foot. Dust motes filled the air with a gagging, musty sort of scent, and Machidael stepped back, grunting. It was dark and he could barely see, but beneath the thick scent of old things, there was a fresher scent. Wood, he thought, and gleefully.

Using his nose to find the stockpile, the hybrid grabbed a few logs and dragged them out, tossing them down the stairs with a clatter. His horse retreated to the other side of the warehouse -- and just in time, too, as she left a pile of manure in the far corner of the building rather than where he planned to sleep. He glowered at her as he dragged out kindling, also located by scent, and set about making a fire. The clay-colored hybrid did not even consider that the owner of this particular stretch of the city might return; if so, Machidael had only taken what was left unguarded. To be sure, he'd take more when he left, but that was only if the owner did not return in time to defend his -- he was sure it was a male -- goods.

When the fire was crackling, the dusky hybrid called his horse back and unstrapped the spear from her side, undoing her saddle, harness, and various other implements. He looked around the warehouse again to ascertain there were no other exits by which Seraht might escape, and left her to wander amongst the machinery. None of it looked dangerous -- if Machidael had bothered to inspect them, he might have realized it was some kind of printing house in the times of humanity.

His things piled in a corner, Machidael reclined next to his fire and pulled his pack towards himself. He pulled the keffiyeh from amongst the pack and folded it up to serve as his pillow, tucking that against his pack. He did not settle back yet, however, for now with light, he decided he might better inspect the upper office and what other treasures it held.

He was sorely disappointed with most of his plunder: amongst it, the only thing worth anything was the small bottle of alcohol, three-quarters gone, and the pinch of stale, dried tobacco alongside it. He glowered at Seraht as she meandered close to him, snuffling for food. Fuck off, he snapped at her, thickly accented English rather than the Arabic he'd used before. I have nothing and you are too stupid to let wander outside. You would run away, he added in Arabic. The horse paid him no mind and snuffled again, sniffing around his toes. The rust-colored jackal growled at her and resisted the urge to kick her in the snout.

He sat up and tapped her cheek instead, pushing her away forcefully. No food, he said, again in his mother tongue. There was nothing in the office, either, though the jackal-hybrid had found an area that smelled faintly of some kind of food, exotic and unidentifiable to him. Horses couldn't have eaten that anyway, it had been meat, but there definitely wasn't any horse food within the house, and he'd exhausted the little bit Sebante had sent him off with when he'd set out this morning.

It was only when the horse again took to bothering him the jackal sat up with another curse, snatching for the bottle of liquor he'd looted out of the office. He tucked it under one arm as he hooked the horse's lead rope to her halter and marched outside, and nearly dropped it as he was shifting it from under his arm to his other hand's grip. Look what you almost made me do, he complained to the horse, though it wasn't intended in earnest.

Machidael hadn't had any sort of friendship since the fight on his boat. Perhaps he might have tried with the Freetown canines, but his accent marked him for an outsider, and he did not want talk to circulate to Sebante and his former crew, either. In truth, he was lonely and talking to his horse more than he might have under different circumstances. The russet hybrid led the horse to an overgrowth of grass, sprouting up wildly from a median strip in the street. There were saplings, too, but no large trees as of yet.

Seraht eagerly began to graze, chopping at the long grasses. The chestnut-hued jackal set down his bottle on the curb and took a step into the grass and looped her rope around one of the saplings, securing it with a knot. He tugged on his handiwork to ascertain its holding ability, and stepped back and away from his horse with the bottle, leaning against the rusted hulk of some great behemoth of a vehicle.

He took a sip and made a hissing noise after he had swallowed, narrowing his eyes as he shook the contents of the bottle. It was thin and brown, and far below the caliber of liquor he was used to. There wasn't a lot of it, either. With a grunt, the jackal tilted his head back and drained the remainder of the bottle in a few long swigs. When it was done, he stepped from the bus, cocked back his arm, and launched the thing with all his might.

His spear-throwing had given him powerful launch, and though the glass bottle was a vastly different shape from what he was used to throwing, it sailed far and high, shattering against the street with a noise that was rather like thunder in the silence of the city. His horse snorted and almost spooked, half-rearing against her lead rope. The sapling swayed and Machidael turned back toward her, setting his hands on his hips. The horse stood still and stared in the direction of the noise, only returning to her grazing after her fright passed.

Machi stood where he was for a long moment, feeling the alcohol rushing through his body. It left a pleasant tingle behind, and he tilted his head back to look at the crescent moon. This was the same wherever he went, and the chestnut-hued jackal was glad to see at least one familiar face. He was pondering the emptiness of the city and why none lived here -- or, at least, why the one he'd found had abandoned his home -- when he saw movement near the broken bottle.

The rust-hued jackal crouched nearly to street-level, crimson eyes focused on the faint shadow in the distance. It was small, hunkering, and smelled unlike anything he'd ever seen before in his life. Machi sorely wished for his spear -- or at least that he'd waited to throw the bottle -- but crept forward all the same, stalking through the shadows on four legs. His own stomach rumbled with hunger, and he begrudged the mare that she was able to eat plant matter and keep breathing. The raccoon was sniffing at the glass when it saw Machidael and bolted.

It was only a few steps into the chase the hybrid stumbled on his own half-drunk feet, skidded to a halt on the concrete, and sat down with a bark of frustration. When he stood, his kaftan was covered with dirt and torn in one place. Cursing again, the short jackal stomped back toward his horse and stood nearby her with his arms crossed until she was done grazing. Then, it was only to lead her inside and sleep for the night.

***

The first thing Machidael was aware of in the morning, upon regaining his consciousness, was the snort and stamp of his horse. No -- there was more than one horse snorting and stamping. He opened his blood-red eyes and blinked several times, sitting up. In the doorway of the warehouse stood a canine much larger than he was -- a wolf, by the looks of her. Behind him, Machi saw the outline of a horse tethered outside. The she-wolf had an armload of packages, all wrapped up in leather, and she dropped them when she saw Machidael.

What are you doing here? she demanded in a voice almost too quick for Machidael to comprehend; she took a few steps forward. She was unarmed but for a knife strapped to her leg, but that mattered less with Machidael -- he was outsized twice over by this canine. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, the rusty-hued hybrid did not stand, but leaned back against his pack, drawing both arms above him in a stretch. He tucked them beneath his head thereafter -- on his pack.

Keeping bed warm? he suggested, thick and broken English hardly comparable to her smooth speech. This answer did not please the woman, and she took a few steps forward. As she did, Machidael reached for his knife, bringing it up and around as the woman closed on him. He pinned it to her throat and hauled himself up by grabbing her arm and scooting out from under her. Forcing her to stand straight and upright, the jackal backed her up quickly against one wall. Fuck off, he spat, amongst his favorite phrases. You leave, you lose.

The woman, who apparently hadn't been expecting such a reaction from the small, rusty-red hybrid in his strange garb, quaked beneath his blade. A spark of defiance showed in her golden-hued eyes, and she glowered at him, lips lifting in a snarl. I'll come back with my friends and kill you, she said, apparently expecting him to let her leave. Machidael did not know if she had friends. If that was the case, they'd already be wroth with him for having slept in her den and attacked her.

So no reason let go, he said, smiling at her toothily.

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