almost tenderly

As one season ends, a new one begins. This was what her mother had always told her. Lucy rose one day and shook the sand from her pelt and departed from the oasis. She did not look back.

The sun beat down in daylight, and Lucy hid herself in sage brush or outcroppings or in the wide maws of empty bolt holes. She did not know what animals had dug this sandy dens, but she used them with impunity when there was no other shelter for her small, pale frame.

In the back of her mind, the gunslinger brooded, dormant now after having successfully peeled her away from Shiloh and Kincaid. She thought of them, sometimes, but this stirred the gunslinger's temper, and so she largely left the memories alone.

But she was a coyote, and it was in her nature to seek kinship with others of her kind. When the sun sank down she picked herself up and sought them out anew, and when many nights had passed without meeting them, she began to sing for them, her pale throat exposed to the big bay moon.

Her cries were shrill and far-reaching, as they always were when she felt very alone.
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 The God-Eater moved through the sand, her paws leading her home. The sun was rising which meant that the heat of the day would soon be upon them, soon would bake her pelt and scorch her paw pads. She hissed wordlessly at it as she moved, scarred form moving at a quick trot.

 Hopefully she would make it home before the heat of the day grew unbearable.

 A noise drew her attention and she shifted her movement towards it. A coyote? It could either be a delightful meal or potentially some entertainment. After all, she'd welcomed a tiny little fox into her home, why not see if a coyote could do the same? She spotted the pale thing in the distance, a flash of red about its neck. “You called?” she returned, her voice much stronger, the vocalizations of a wolf.

 Perhaps she might be a little friend for Nosebleed - the coywolf was at a lack for friends.

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It was unsettling to hear a strange voice answer her, after all this time. She stood still in the sand when she caught sight of the stranger, hulking but otherwise nondescript in the distance. It was a wolf, she knew, and knew little else. Female. Grown, obviously. She wondered what it could want with her, and then swiveled her ears in cconfusion, amusement, surprise when her unasked question was answered aloud.

Lucy dipped her head in acknowledgement, and then pointed out, almost apologetically, "I am a coyote. I call for coyotes." Not that she would spurn the company of wolves — but she was not here to summon them away from their business, nor disturb their mysterious lives.

It was a wonder, really, that one had stopped to speak to her at all.
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 The little one seemed almost amused at her appearance. How queer coyotes were, with their little yappy calls. Nothing quite as beautiful as the resonating noise of a wolf. Scarecrow - or as she called him, Nosebleed - held a strange mixture of the two, being half coyote and half wolf. Still, she did not despise coyotes for simply being coyotes. They could be prey, but so too could wolf. In fact, the witch would argue that wolf was a much better meal.

 She smiled at the call, giving a little huff of laughter. Of course this was a coyote, did she think her blind or stupid? Andraste was not offended, simply answering with: “You called to the desert and the desert answered with me.”

 Her eyes moved casually over their surroundings, finally coming to a stop back on the decorated girl before her. “Are there others of your kind here? A pack?” She knew coyotes moved in packs but she wasn't too sure if that was what they were called. Perhaps, like deer, they were called herds, or like birds they were flocks.

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Lucy continued to peer at the she wolf, outwardly indolent while the gunslinger whispered warnings in her ear. One of them flicked as if to ward off a fly, and she gave a few slow blinks as the stranger spoke to her of the desert as if it were a living thing.

Lucy looked off toward the sunrise, out at the burning gold of the sand. She addressed the horizon when she answered,

"No. I walk alone,"

still in that same gentle, polite tone of voice. But even for Lucy, this seemed a little too much interest for a strange wolf to show in one small coyote. She took a measured step back, and then a few more in shorted succession before pausing to address the wolf once more.

"Last night I dreamed of three birds: one black as night, one red as blood, one white as snow. The black bird hunted at night, and the white bird in the light of day. But the red bird could do neither; its prey always saw its approach.

"So the red bird came to roost on the shoulder of a lonely wolf, who promised to give to it a portion of every kill. And that same night the red bird turned and plucked the eyes from the wolf, because it was hungry."

Lucy gazed calmly at the wolf, waiting.
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 “Canids should not be alone,” she mused aloud in answer to the simple statement, so very polite. She wondered on this one, if she truly was alone or if she had a pack of jackals and coyotes elsewhere. Perhaps this was a ploy for them to sneak up on her and devour her - Ha!

 She listened to this strange little tale, curious.

 Odd that the little thing had decided to go on such a rant when there was no one near but herself. It was unprompted and spared little in the way of sense. “So,” she said, “Are you the red bird or am I?” Her lips tweaked into a smile.

 Or was this some strange little telling of her story, as wrapped in red as she was?

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This was true; Lucy had always held to the traditional beliefs about the importance of a pack. She had believed in the tiny band in the desert, but the sun had set on their time. She had believed in Feather and the Flower-Eater, but so too had that time passed.

She was not sure what she believed about the stranger, but at her question, a smile that did not belong to Lucy flickered briefly across her face. It was an expression too old for her young features; one of patient bemusement and tolerance.

"I was not in this dream," she said to the other woman, her voice delicate, as if reluctantly imparting some unpleasant truth. "The red bird is among you. It has come hungry to roost. Your kindness is not a currency it understands."

She looked to the horizon, over one pale, slim shoulder. "I am not in this story," she said, her tone vague, almost a repetition of her earlier statement. Her attention returned to the strange woman only long enough to give a low, respectful bow. Then she turned and resumed her fleet-footed path through the sands.
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 The red bird... she wondered heavily on this. A huff of laughter escaped her at the thought of her being kind. Perhaps the coyote was just mad. Ah, she was leaving. Andraste watched calmly as the little thing picked her way away and with a sigh, she turned and headed homewards.

 Who might the red bird be - and how might she eat it before it ate her?

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