men of no nation

Hoping for @Shiloh and/or some #coyotegang

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exposition

It was all in his imagination. The taste of blood always seemed to linger far longer than any other. When he was feeling more fanciful, he liked to chalk it up to the dark magic — but he rarely felt fanciful anymore. There was nothing fanciful about the sort of power he had learned, and he knew that, one day, the price for all this power would have to be paid. He remembered, always, the voice of the medicine man:

You will never taste sweetness again, and somewhere in the world, a creature will awaken and begin to hunt you.

So it was no wonder that he shot every snake, painter, and coyote who happened to cross his path. It was a shame, but he did what he had to in order to preserve his own life. And he felt no sorrow when he lifted his revolver in his scarred old hand to take aim, and let fly a bullet that found its final resting place deep in the pale coyote's chest.

It grinned at him, and Lucy awoke with a violent start, confused by the strange vision to which he had just borne witness. The taste of blood was still heavy in his mouth, and he was still, he thought, in the same desert that he'd just seen in his mind's eye. He picked himself up, licking chapped lips and twitching a rosy grey nose; there were no signs of her family — nor of his horse —  on the wind or within his line of sight. Four legs tangled as he turned on the spot, but he got the hang of it a moment later, and did not notice the changes that had come over him in those brief moments between waking and sleeping.

Lucy set off, head down and tail limp and red bandana fluttering in the hot, dry breeze. Over the next rise there was a beautiful mirage, and although he did not believe for a moment it was real, it seemed a good enough direction to head in as any.

Carefully, he picked his way down the dune on dainty white paws, and found himself soon enough at the water's edge. It was real, she marveled, and let her head drop to test the water for signs of toxicity (as her father had taught her) before beginning to lap at the little oasis pool.

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The thing about Kincaid was that he wasn’t lonesome all the time. Sometimes, Shiloh investigated him thoroughly, burrowing his pointy muzzle in his fur and breathing in deep. He could smell other things. Other things, like the little coyote (and himself, he thought), and other wolves. He never remarked on this, but sometimes he spun around a few times and stared into the distance with his ears cocked forward and listened. His nose worked feverishly and his tail curled between his ankles. But when the coast was clear he’d lie down next to the wolf or squirm under his elbow, or jump on him and bite at his ears before bounding off to entice him into a chase.

And sometimes, Shiloh went away.

He was crossing the sand with his quick foxtrot stride, knife clutched by its hilt in his teeth, when something white in his periphery made his ears swivel. He froze, nose twitching, and watched her drink at the edge of the water.

He dropped the shiny stick onto the sand and his tail wagged as if winding him up. Then he flung his head back and shouted, maw open wide and white teeth gleaming. It was an awful sound, but in their language it said, Hello! I’m here! Look at me!

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The water was bitter on his tongue, as it had been for more than a decade, but Lucy was confused and dismayed by the taste. She reared back, tongue working against the roof of her mouth and the backs of her sharp yearling teeth. The silver flash of her eyes was at once amused and horrified, 

And then she was very still, listening to the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

He had met many coyotes, in the past. He had worn their dead skin underneath the light of the moon. But Lucy had only ever known her family, and the vague but threatening scent of roving males that her father and brothers and uncle Yossarian would always run off in a great cacophony. But she held within her memories of a different time; memories of gunshot and horseback and sad, broken bodies. She pitied those bodies, but she was not ashamed.

In her stormwater gaze, there was a peculiar duality; she had never faced a strange coyote before. She had killed hundreds without a second thought. Lucy gazed back at the male, calm and steady, and yawned a low, warbling cry.

I see you.

Her blonde head dipped down below her shoulders, and she slunk a few paces closer before flattening herself onto her belly amongst a cluster of fragrant sagebrush.

So what?

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Apparently, the male coyote only wanted her to look. And it must have been so he could look back, because he stood for a long time on his dune gazing at the stranger with his ears pricked forward. She wasn't exceedingly friendly, and he was no longer in desperate need of a companion. But she was strange, with her pale coat and her bright red banner. What is that? His head lifted and his nose quivered. Not blood. It was something, like the something he carried in his mouth. Like the knife, but like a tongue, too, he thought. 

Shiloh picked up the shiny stick and padded across the sand, pausing a short distance away to likewise crouch down on his belly. His tail brushed a fan into the sand as it wagged behind him. Again he dropped the knife, this time on top of his paws.

“What is that?” He expected her to know he meant her bright red something.

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He was not afraid. He had been hunted, he realized. The price had been paid, and now he was here.

Lucy.

"What is what?" he asked, and was startled by the sound of his own, girlish voice. Belatedly startled by the voice of the other coyote, who he understood with perfect clarity. Whose voice he thought he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind. And he was only then becoming aware of all the things that came along with that name. His long, pale legs. Presumably a face to match.

The whatever it was that attracted the stranger's eyes to his throat.

"You have a knife," he said, and then Lucy's ears fell back in confusion at the unfamiliar word. She did not know what a knife was, but she felt a strong aversion to the item; a stronger aversion to the item being wielded by him. "Who are you?" she asked him, beginning, for the first time, to look and sound rather fearful.

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Shiloh laid his chin on the knife on his paws, but his nose went on working. On the something she wore around her neck, he thought he could smell something familiar. Something he’d smelled on the knife before he’d carried it around a few days. His little coyote brain couldn’t recollect what it was, however — only that it was familiar. A little bit.

“I don’t know,” he answered, gazing at it wistfully. But I want it.

She knew what he had. She called it a knife.

At this word, Shiloh raised his head and his big ears swiveled toward Lucy. Then he looked down at the knife and slowly rose to his paws, letting it tumble to the ground in front of them.

“I have a knife,” he repeated stupidly under his breath. I have a knife.

He looked up at the little white coyote again and his ears flattened. He said, “I’m Shiloh.” His tail stilled. “Who are you?”

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No answer was forthcoming. Lucy watched the effect her words had on him and felt a secret thrill dance in her belly. And then he was amused with himself — with her — and Lucy felt warm and safe and secret in the confines of her own mind.

“I'm Lucy,” she replied, belly-crawling a few feet closer and then rising onto her long, skinny legs to test the air. “You have friends,” she said, her tail giving a hopeful little shimmy. It was all well and good to be friends with oneself (he was, again, quite amused), but safety came only with numbers. This had always been the way of things.

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She's taken to following Shiloh, trailing after him when she's nothing else to do. She's declared the stick off-limits, seeing as it was his heroic stick-wielding that saved her from that slow death; it simply would not do to make a grab for it. But when she finds him today, it is the stranger her focus turns to, and the flash of red around her neck. Tail already going behind her, she makes her prancing approach, offering a warbled howl in greeting. hello! I am also here. 

A quick smile and two become three as Lark plops to her hindquarters beside Shiloh, antenna-like ears already pushed toward the white women. A quick glance at the knife on the ground, but true to her word, she leaves it be. She has another target, anyways. This close, it is clear to see that the red is not part of her, but something else. "Hello!" Now she has to think, shifting slightly on her hindquarters. Making a grab, however polite she'd tried to be, had not worked well last time. But she'd been thinking about it, and she'd come up with a new strategy. "Very nice face," she compliments, it isn't a lie. 

A moment, and then, "Can I have it please?" A gesture toward her neck, a hopeful glance.

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Shiloh lifted his chin and set a paw on the knife, eyeballing Lucy. That didn’t ring a bell — not that he would have known a bell from a knife or a bandana. She said, you have friends, and his head cocked to the side. He had to think on this for a moment, because while he was a guardian angel, whatever that was, his place at Kincaid’s side seemed as transient as the landscape of the desert. Wolves and coyotes didn’t pair up, except briefly to make little halfblood bastard puppies. And not even that, if they were both male.

He did not deliberate long before a shrill yell made him bound in a circle, then Lark conveniently appeared. I have a knife, Shiloh thought, tugging it aside with his paw as she drew close, just in case. And I have friends. He craned his neck to give her a good sniff, eyes cutting at Lucy watchfully. Where had the cholla burr coyote been? And with whom?

He noticed she was not interested in the shiny stick, but in Lucy’s red something. Shiloh’s jaw slacked when she asked for it outright. He gave a soft, low whine in admonishment. These things took finesse! ...Didn’t they? He’d eat his paw if Lark got the red something just by asking for it.

It occurred to Shiloh that he was the Big Coyote of this outfit, and he could likely take away from whichever little coyote made off with the red thing. But what good would that be, if he didn’t have anybody to play tug of war with afterward?

He sank down on his haunches and slouched to the side, ears pinching together as he waited to see what wonders pretty words could work.

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Because she was facing them, Lucy saw Lark coming before Shiloh could. Her pale ears pressed forward in interest, rosey grey nose twitching in friendly curiosity. When she called, it set off a chain reaction — Shiloh had to get up and dance, and so Lucy danced, too, and whined back at Lark a long greeting that rose and fell like a leaping fish.

When they were all three quiet and still, Lark paid her a compliment, and Lucy was on the verge of softening entirely when Lark asked her something very strange. “You want my face?” he asked in a flat, forward tone. But the direction of her gaze had him looking down at himself, and catching sight of a flash of red that sent him jolting back to his paws.

But he was not bleeding, as he had feared. It was the bandana — his — apparently having followed him into this next plane.

He said, “What will you give me for it?” It meant nothing to him. It had hidden his face from the law and from his enemies and from the hot desert sun. It had served him well, but it was only a thing. A talisman, perhaps, of the man he had been. But he was a man no longer, and Lucy had no use for it.

But I like it. It's pretty, she thought, and he was startled to realize how very possessive he was of the item. And, looking at the other two, how much they seemed to want it.

“We could make a deal,” he said to Lark, his girl-voice gentle and sweet. “I would let you wear it, and hold it, if you made a deal with me.”

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Shiloh's sound has her gaze flash to him, ears flattening slightly at the sound. She'd been disapproved of plenty of times, but she doesn't like his. Lark sniffs at him, struck with an odd sort of guilt, and considers attempting an appeasing lick to his cheek when the pale coyote speaks, and her head whips right back aroud. "no," she deadpans, oblivious as to how the girl came to that conclusion. Pale-coyote suddenly seems to be aware of her red, moving with a jolt that has Lark nervously rise before plopping back onto her hindquarters. 

But the coyote settles, and as does she, as another question is delivered to her. Not the easy ending she'd hoped for, but — a glance at Shiloh, then back at her as she considers. "Um, I — what do you want?" comes her answer, a little nervous, seeing as she has very, very little. At the mention of a deal, Lark dares to step out a little further from Shiloh and edges nearer the red-wearing coyote. She'd never been part of a deal, but already it seems far better than the bared teeth that'd greeted her last time she'd tried for something special. "Ok! I'll make a deal, please." Manners had never been explicitly taught to the coyote, but she understood certain words gave one an edge when they really, really wanted something.

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Shiloh gave another uncomfortable whine when the white coyote proposed a deal with Lark. He didn't know much about angels, so he didn't know much about devils, either. Just that the cholla burr coyote seemed to be on the cusp of making a deal with one.

Lucy did not look or sound like a devil, though. She was certainly strange with her white pelt, but that wasn't the damning thing. It was the smell of her. The smell of her something.

Shiloh leaned toward Lark and, if his mouth had been made differently, he would have been speaking out of the side of it when he said, “You really wanna stick something else to your neck?”

But that was only after she accepted, and he kinda wanted to see what came of it. So he said, “Be careful,” and kept a watchful eye on little Lucy-fer.

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Careful! Lucy thought, halfway scandalized, wondering what threat the male could possibly think she might pose to them. But inwardly, he was grinning to himself, imagining they could sense something of the fearsome creature he had been, once upon a time. The srot of creature he might become again, if he could guide his wayward body along the right paths.

But Lucy liked herself the way that she was. An array of choices fanned out before her; his voice whispered dark invocations in her ear. She did not know the languages, nor many of the words, but the intent behind them made her quiver in place for a moment before she shook such chilling thoughts away.

“You have to promise to be my friend, always,” Lucy declared. “And you have to promise in these words: I swear to be loyal and kind to Lucy, and to protect her and care for her, and to never injure or betray her, or by my own inaction, allow her to be injured or betrayed, for as long as the bandana is in my possession. And if I should go back on this oath, let it strangle me dead.” That last part didn't sound quite like what she'd meant to say, but the other coyote seemed very nice, as far as Lucy was concerned. It probably wouldn't come up.

“If you will make this oath, I will lend you the bandana, for as long as you are faithful,” said Lucy, watching Lark carefully for signs of subterfuge. Her gaze flickered toward Shiloh every now and then, assessing him as well. There was a scent between them that she didn't know, friendly and threatening all at once. It put her on edge, and she was eager to make an ally in this strange new land.

+1 Formation Points

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Shiloh raises a rather good point, and her tongue runs over her lips nervously. His nervousness is contagious, and she shifts from paw to paw, her gaze cutting back to him. She knows the knife-bearer to be very wise, and in possession of angel powers, but the red that the pale stranger wears is oh-so strange and bright. It tempts her so, and though she remembers the dread of knowing she'd been destined for a slow death in the dunes, it is in the past; the Red and the Deal are now. 

And so she decides she'll take his advice on the being careful bit, but her nervous shifting stalls as the girl outlines her terms. There is a sort of static energy in the air as she begins, the muted crinkle of something else. But she's far too busy attempting to remember all the words, including one she picks out as the name of the Red (there are rather a lot of them, and Lark's memory has never been praised) to pay it any mind. Being a friend is something she can do, or so she thinks; she's never explicitly had one. She's rather pleased with the deal until Lucy winds to a close. Her eyes widen, and she shoots a very nervous glance at Shiloh, tail falling behind her. Could it do that? It seemed very inanimate, wrapped around the stranger's neck as it is. 

Lend doesn't sound that great either; she doesn't want Lucy snatching it back. Once it's in her grasp, however, she very much doubts anyone would be able to take it away. The first tendrils of regret begin to find a foothold, though somehow, backing out now no longer feels like a credible option. She assures herself once, and then again, that the Red will not lead to another slow death, and somehow her own guarantee is good enough. "I can be your friend," she decides aloud, though needs a moment to recall the words. Her brow wrinkles, then smooths, and, "I'll be — I swear to be loyal and kind and protect and care for Lucy. I won't injure or betray her or inaction — by inaction — I won't let her be injured or betrayed if I can as long as the bandana is in my possession and if I go back on this oath it'll, um, strangle me dead." 

Once the words are out, it feels almost as if some odd sort of pressure she'd not noticed is alleviated. "Ok?" comes her query, hoping for a sign she's done it right, and very shortly thereafter, the bandana. Unease makes a home in her stomach, but, she decides, friends can't possibly be a bad thing.

+1 Formation Points

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Oh, Shiloh wanted the bright red thing on Lucy’s neck, too. But contracts — something about the very notion triggered a pang of unease. He remembered it from somewhere, sometime, but what could a coyote know about contracts?

Well, Lucy knew about them.

His suspicions all seemed to be confirmed when the deal closed, and Lucy asked that Lark swear to guard her bodily. When you were as little as Lark, with the exception of course of her full sized ears, you didn’t get to be a body guard. You might, however, become a martyr. No, he did not like this deal at all.

His ears fell back, and he started to say, Cholla Burr Coyote, let’s talk about this, but got no further than opening his mouth. She was reciting the oath (sort of), signing away her tiny little soul. Shiloh stood up and spun in a tight circle, then crouched down again with his tail hooked around his ankle. His eyes wandered from small coyote to small coyote, whites glancing in their corners.

Just as soon as that panic came, however, it subsided. He chewed the hilt of the knife excitably, then urged, “That’s the oath. Give it.”

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“Okay,” Lucy agreed, and then began trying to fit a paw between her skinny throat and the red fabric. She paused when the other coyote spoke, however, and set her tiny paw down had enough to send up a little puff of dust.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, the words snapping out with such force that his meaning could not have been clearer: Watch your mouth. “I will give it to her, not you.” Lucy's stormwater eyes turned on Lark, marginally more friendly. “Here,” she said, ducking her head to struggle out of the bandana. She nosed it in Lark's direction, even though she still wanted to keep it, and kept a careful eye on Shiloh.

“What's your name?” she asked, and then, seeming to address them both, “I'm Lucy.”

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A nervous little sigh of relief follows when she's met with approval, though it's quickly followed with an even more nervous swipe of her tongue over her lips when the handing-over of the bandana is interrupted by a stomp. She does not dare interject, though secretly, she's glad for Shiloh's attempts to ensure Lucy's end of the deal is held up. She hopes a sidelong glance is enough to belay this, before finally the bandana is handed over. She grabs it first in her fangs, testing the fabric with carefully little biting motions, before attempting to nose into the loop of it as Lucy had.

This is, ultimately, a long, awkward struggle, during which the knot becomes a great deal tighter and the loop a little larger. Ultimately, she succeeds in looping it over her own neck through awkward motions of her head and paws, and a great deal of pushing her head against the sand. One side remains looped over a pricked ear, though she elects to ignore this as she answers, "I'm Lark." 

Bargaining and deals aside, she's suddenly inclined to do something a little more benefitting of coyotes. "Wanna go get some mice?" she offers, a little wag of her tail to follow. "I know where 's lot's of 'em" Providing both parties agree, she'll lead them to the little grove near the oasis that stock full of them, a little eagerness in her step as she leaves the place of bargaining and deals with pale strangers-turned-friends behind.

+1 Formation Points

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