give me some time to blow the man down

For Shilohhhhh

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He'd never really wanted kids, anyway. Sure, he had them, and he did get some joy out of imagining them out there, somewhere, doin' their own thing. Incredible that he'd had a paw (or some other part) in making little wolves that could run around and shit in the woods, same as him. Probably, some of them had kids of their own, by now. But all that was separate from him, and he liked it best that way.

Or he had, until this last season. He hadn't even meant to get attached, but well, a hard winter had seen him seeking out familiar faces, and some of them were, obviously, a little too familiar. And maybe he was never going to be a proper father, but he liked going back to see them every now and then. Some of them were going to be bigger than him — he could already tell [size=small]—[/size] and he'd been looking forward to finding out if this was going to be the visit when he had to look up instead of down.

And so, well, he was looking for them. Might as well, right?

The lake was a good place to start, simply because lakes meant rivers, and he'd once been told that all rivers led to the sea. And his kids were seafarers, like their ma, so he was bound to run into them one of these days, right? Right!? That's what he was telling himself, anyway, as he took his time tracing the lake's perimeter, just past dusk one balmy winter day. He'd left the flat and empty lands behind him in the north country; he'd had to, since his winter coat had not yet come out in the wash. But he'd had about enough of travelling for the day; there was still plenty enough road ahead of him to be getting on with, and no company to share it with in sight.

Kincaid found himself a pretty meadow to spend the night in, and tipped his head back to yowl at the stars.

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Shiloh felt like he’d hit the ground running.

Because one moment there was nothing at all, and the next he was aware of the ground eaten by his long, effortless stride. And of grass underpaw, parting for him and bending under his chest and belly. The dark dome of the sky, with innumerable pinpricks of light coruscant in its infinite depth. Water like a broken shard of mirror glass. A fullness in his mouth.

He stopped and stood with his ears pricked forward, unconsciously tonguing the object clutched in his pointy maw. After a moment he dropped his head and spat it out and stood with his muzzle pointed up. His nose worked of its own volition, then those satellite-dish ears swiveled. He thought he could hear someone whispering to him, but it must have been fronds and pine needles and the general shush of the wind.

No, this was as it had always been. This had always been his body. Nothing strange, here.

Shiloh picked up his knife by its gnawed-up handle and kept moving. He was going somewhere; he’d figure out where once his little coyote brain caught up to his spindly limbs. For now, he moved wraithlike through the high grass, intermittently pausing to smell the air and to listen, because he dwelled somewhere in the middle of the food chain and instinct wouldn’t let him forget it. Particularly not when a yowl carried up to him from nearer to the black water.

He stopped again, spat out his knife, licked his chops.

It jogged something in his rattly brain. He was following the moon tonight, wasn’t he? Same as every night since time began. He looked over his tawny shoulder at the crescent behind him for a long while. When the weight of his contemplation bore too heavily, he threw his head back and called back in his unmusical, shrill language.

Then he snatched his knife from its bed on the grass and forged ahead, bushy tail wheeling in nervous, preemptive excitement. He had to be cautious, but he trusted in the wit behind his eyes and the long stride of his limbs.
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He had not expected a reply. Not from so close, anyway. He'd been combing this area for the better part of the evening, and had caught no fresh canine scents along the way. It seemed almost as if he had called the other into being, and not wanting to be rude to the apparition — guardian angel? — he lifted his nose to shriek back before setting off in the other's direction.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought it was strange that the voice was distinctly coyote. Typically when he was looking for company, he sought out his "own kind" — and rarely acknowledged his coyote blood unless someone else forced him to. That was the way everyone was most comfortable, and so it was an easy choice to make.

But, apparently, when he summoned demons, they were drug up from the underworld as coyotes. Or this one had been, at least.

He was still trying to decide if the stranger was guardian angel or demonic spirit when he came out of the woods and caught sight of the small, canine figure at the other end of the clearing. There was a fizzle of something in the air, but Kincaid could ascribe neither good nor evil.

He stepped forward anyway, and half a dozen steps into the field, collapsed with a loud sneeze into the tall grass and sleeping flowers. His legs wheeled into the air as he rolled around in the weeds.

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An answer!

The coyote flattened his ears to improve his aerodynamics, then learned he could not sing his greeting song around the knife. He kept trying nonetheless, descending into the meadow proper before he spotted the stranger rolling in the grass. That was invitation enough for Shiloh.

He came a-bounding, but darted around the coywolf at a respectful distance before sprawling his long forelimbs on the ground. Ass up, tail windmilling, maw grinning — but he didn’t drop his knife yet, just in case the meet and greet went south. Clearly he was ready to spring away at a moment’s notice, as evidenced by his relentless springing. After his bow, he vaulted up again and trotted a half circle around Kincaid before dropping down to his belly. His tail swept the ground, and he said or asked something that was perfectly incomprehensible around the hilt of the knife in his mouth.
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It seemed to Kincaid that this was an especially small coyote — or perhaps it was only that he had not seen them except from a distance in quite some time. Still, he rolled onto his belly, still crouched low against the earth, to greet the other male as he came near, frolicking in such a way that he reminded Kincaid of the gazelles he had seen dancing across the plains. It was hard to keep track of, almost, but Kincaid did a good job of keeping the apparition in his sights, and after a moment they were both still, both low to the ground, both near silent.

Kincaid belly-crawled a few feet closer, grizzling at the smaller canine in faux-menace as he tried to make a grab for the shiny stick he was carrying.

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After a prefatory game of circling and tracking, Shiloh felt secure enough to let his considerably larger counterpart belly-crawl closer. His muscles tightened, spring-loaded just in case it was all a trick — he knew that game as well as if he’d played it, himself — and he curled his lips at Kincaid to give it right back to him.

He had all but forgotten his shiny stick, but his ears shot upright when Kincaid’s teeth clacked against the jagged metal edges. His eyes were wide and angled enough to reveal glances of their rarely seen whites as he bit down harder on the leather-wrapped hilt. He had the good end of the stick and he knew it. And he knew that was his only advantage, since he was not much more than half his new acquaintance’s weight.

He dug his paws in and growled mine at Kincaid, teeth flashing. This time it rumbled from deep in his chest, but how threatening could he be, really? He was a tetanus risk at worst.
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It was a sharp shiny stick! Kincaid jerked away, compelled by both the coyote's growl of warning and by the tang of blood in his mouth. He stood back a moment, tense, his cut tongue working irritably against his cut lip like a dog licking peanut butter off the roof of his mouth. But he was soon invading the coyote's personal space once more, body held stiffly to keep himself almost at the same level as his summoned demon, although he could not help but stand just a little bit taller than the other.

Kincaid circled carefully around the other male, mouthing at his very large ears, and then his thick scruff, and then his bottle-brush tail. The smell of coyote was other and pungent, but that was something that could be fixed. With a friendly sneeze, Kincaid threw himself against the smaller creature and began trying to roll all over him — likely an uncomfortable experience, considering Kincaid's superior weight.

But, he thought the coyote should consider himself lucky; he could have just lifted a leg on the poor thing.

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As the coyote predicted, the stick punished the Unchosen. He was not sure how he had anticipated this, and the several sore spots inside his own mouth didn’t clue him in.

Kincaid was not deterred long. The coyote rose to his full height and gave his tail a few swishes while he was worked over by a busy muzzle. He was amenable to being gently chewed — even if a little blood was left on his ear — because aside from being a failed thief, the wolf didn’t seem intent on eviscerating him.

That put him well above most on Shiloh’s spectrum of friendly potential.

After waiting for him to come back around to his face, he lifted his narrow snout to root at the base of the other’s neck. He was going to rise onto his hind legs to get a better angle, but the moment his front paws left the ground he was bowled over and rolled on like a claimed carcass.

He struggled wildly to roll back onto his belly, but was turned completely over in the process. It was all he could do to hold onto the precious stick, which got jabbed into the dirt in the midst of The Wallowing. His neck bent awkwardly and he had no choice but let go — then he squirmed away and sprang to his feet and shook himself mightily.

Now it was his turn to sneeze. Not communicatively, but earnestly. Repeatedly, and other -lys. He eyed Kincaid as soon as he could hold his eyes open, then extended his neck to pluck his stick out of the dirt by the hilt.
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Now that he had effectively written his name all across the coyote’s face and body, Kincaid was feeling much better. The coyote was His, and so that meant that the shiny stick was also His by extension. He still wanted to touch and chew on it, but the coyote could be substituted for these activities in his stead.

For the time being, he barked in the coyote's face and slapped the ground with his forepaws, inviting the coyote to caper along with him as he turned and raced back across the meadow. Chase me! said the happy loll of his tongue as he glanced over his shoulder.

Unfortunately, no one had ever told Kincaid not to run with knives.

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Shiloh sprang back and bowed in return, tail working overtime. As soon as his wolf friend turned around on him he charged ahead, bounding after through the high grass. This would have been easier and more enjoyable sans the knife, but he was not about to drop it. Not even in the pursuit of play.

Instead, he tried to keep up enough to paw at Kincaid’s flanks. Normally he’d nip at him, but as it was, he was accidentally a little more threatening than that. One side of his head was harmless, and the other was sharp and painful.

Whenever the chase turned back on him, he preferred to sprint a short distance, then stop and put his back to the wolf. He’d play-growl and turn in tight circles, then abruptly flatten on his belly or roll onto his back with his bushy tail flailing.

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The game lasted a long time, coyote and wolf seemingly able to chase and be chased for hours without fatigue. Perhaps it helped that the turns were broken up with wrestling, made awkward by the presence of the shiny stick. Kincaid especially liked to capture his prey at the end of the hunt, and to poke and prod and chew on various parts of his new toy — the big, swiveling ears seemed to be a particular favorite of his.

But not even Kincaid could go all night long. Eventually, he captured the coyote between his big forepaws and was reluctant to let him up, instead grooming his cheek and the side of his throat until the fur seemed almost plastered to his skin.

"Ain't you gonna tell me your name?" he asked, dropping his head down beside the half-pinned coyote's. "Or do I have to name you? Since I summoned you and all."

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Their games persisted for a tolerable length of time, and Shiloh’s knife was simultaneously an advantage and a burden. It was never advantageous when he wanted it to be, however, and it prevented him from ever getting a good bite in. Plus, as their play went on, his jaw grew sore from holding it.

Kincaid put an abrupt stop to things, anyway, after pinning the coyote and licking his fur until it was clumpy and damp. He finally dropped the knife so he could make transparent non-attempts at escape by biting at the wolf’s face and scruff. Only for a short time, however, before he surrendered and almost seemed to doze.

“You didn’t summon me,” he said without quite discounting that story. He couldn’t remember much before he got here, after all. “But what would you call me if you did?”

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It did talk! Kincaid had begun to wonder, and was glad to find out his fears were unfounded. It was still a good companion if it couldn't, but he imagined it would get awfully lonely talking to it, sometimes. The specific thing it said, too, was a bit ominous. Kincaid eyed it a moment before deciding this must either be a lie or perfect ignorance.

"I summoned you," Kincaid replied, but then let the matter drop. "And I don't know. I was thinking maybe, Scruffy or Clyde McStabbyface."He booped the coyote’s cheek with his nose. "Pretty Blue Eyes? That's too long." This fact fact not seem to discount the idea, however.

Kincaid snuffled into the coyote's fur, sneezing when all the pollen they'd been rolling through bothered his nose.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," he suggested, laying his head down to use the coyote like a pillow, since he had already been made into a tiny coyote bed.

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Kincaid’s counterargument appeared to convince Shiloh, anyway. Stranger things had happened, sure. He didn’t pull a face until those first two names were suggested. Scruffy! He was changing coats, was all. And his face was not stabby; it was the special, shiny stick he wielded.

The big unwieldy wolf snout pressed the side of his face and a better suggestion was forthcoming. He said, “But it’s the best one.”

Then he squinted against the sneeze and laid his head down, squirming to free a paw so he could get comfortable. Tonight, wherever he’d been headed, whatever he’d been doing, was at least a moderate success for finding somebody to curl up against (or be cuddled on against his will; tomato, tomahto).

“It’s Shiloh, but you can keep going about my eyes.” A pause, and he added, “Your turn.”

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If Kincaid could see himself, he would not be calling anyone scruffy. But since he could not, the little coyote was open to his ridicule. It was playful, at least. And he kind of liked him scruffy, hence the name.

Shiloh, though — that was nice. He liked that. It had a nice, easy short form and the full name was soft at the end, like Shiloh's bottle-brush tail. Like his big, squishy ears. Like his cool, gentle eyes.

"Hm," he said, shifting along with the coyote while he found a more comfortable position. Reasonably certain he wasn't going to run off again, Kincaid allowed the other man out from underneath him. Mostly. "I like them. You've got eyes like an angel. Or like a field of flowers. I don't know if I've seen a lotta coyotes with blue eyes." Not that he'd met many at all. He hadn't met many wolves with them, either. "You're special."

His gaze fell toward the shiny stick, but he looked quickly away, not wanting to incite any more fighting or frolicking. It was nice to have someone to hold onto (or down!) for a little while, and he wasn't quite done with that, yet.

Finally, he held up his end of the bargain: "I'm Kincaid." Just Kincaid, most of the time, so he didn't bother with his first or middle. There were more important things to discuss, like, "You won't run off if I shut my eyes for a little while, will you?" he asked, real insecurity shining possessively through his black eyes. "I'll catch you breakfast when I get up, if you stick around."

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This was all especially interesting because Shiloh didn’t know much about what he looked like. He had seen his reflection a time or two, but if his eyes were an unusual color, he had not noticed it. But field of flowers and like an angel were the descriptors he focused on, and finally, you’re special. Shiloh’s little coyote heart did a few somersaults. It was enough to prevent him noticing when Kincaid cut a look at his knife — but hell, after all that, maybe he didn’t mind if he, y’know, just looked at it.

“Kincaid,” he repeated. It was a strange name, but one he felt like he’d known before just this moment. He could reflect on that, later.

For now, he squirmed up onto his paws and shook himself all over, then trotted in a full circle around Kincaid.

“I wanna spend the night with you,” the coyote said. “That’s why I answered.” Maybe that was why Kincaid was able to summon him at all!

He came close again, pressing his nose into the wolf’s tawny shoulder to try and coax him to lean in one direction so he could serry close. He wanted in between his forelegs so he could stretch full length and still lie side by side — which was very close and familiar for a pair of strangers, but Kincaid had said pretty things to him. So, it was fine. He’d already forgotten the discrepancy of their size and species, and the attempted shiny stick theft was water under the enamored bridge.

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Oh. Something in him gentled, at that, like cracked red clay smoothing into mud after the first rainy day in nine years. Kincaid was easy to manipulate, after that, falling onto one shoulder and then stretching out, one foreleg lifted to admit Shiloh into his embrace.

The coyote's size had not been forgotten by Kincaid, who was now exceedingly gentle able placing his paw back down over scruffy fur and fluttering ribcage. Nervous, exultant energy sent him into another grooming spree — the bridge of Shiloh's pointy muzzle and the corners of his eyes were Kincaid's target's this time. And then he did, eventually, lay his head down and shut his eyes, but if he slept at all, his rest must have been brief and poor. He shifted, and soon after lifted his head to poke his nose into the coyote's patchy scruff, and then measured his dainty paw between his top and bottom jaw, and then snooze with his face as a pillow, and, and, and,

The fact was simply that Kincaid had never been good at sleeping, and especially, had never been good at sleeping at night. And so while the moon was still up and the crickets still singing, he tired of grooming between Shiloh's toes and disentangled himself to stretch.

"Come to the lake," he said, reaching down to tug at the coyote's scruff. "Now's when the fishin's good. You can go back to sleep, and when you wake up there'll be breakfast." Maybe.

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As a result of all the nervous grooming, Shiloh did not get much sleep, either. That was more than fine; he was a coyote and he slept whenever he pleased. An hour or two here and there was enough to keep him going. It was better anyway to be tended to by his summoner, and he even turned his face toward the wolf’s, then later turned onto his back so he could work on his paws.

But then it was time to go, and he was hoisted halfway to his feet before he knew what was happening.

He gave a stretch, claws digging little trenches into the earth as he sloped his spine. Ass high, then he switched it up, elongating his hind legs and kicking them off the ground each in turn. He yawned wide, and for a split second his mouth was impossibly large and toothy. His teeth clicked together when he was finished and he loped after Kincaid, only to reel back and snatch his knife off the ground. He wasn’t used to keeping up with things.

“Why did you summon me?” he asked conversationally as they made their way — only there was a strong possibility Kincaid couldn’t understand him thanks to the shiny stick in his mouth. “Were you lonesome?”

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oof, my last post had a lot of typos.

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Kincaid waited impatiently while Shiloh stretched, dancing a full circle around him before he was finally ready to go. And then, of course, he was setting a pace with his long strides that Shiloh had to take short, faster ones to keep up with, and Kincaid was never going to notice at a time like this, with a brand new world stretched out unknown and pristine before them.

"Pardon? Am I what?" he asked through a toothy cackle, but a beat later he had parsed the coyote's muffled question. And what a question it was! Am I lonesome? Lord, was he anything else?

The funny thing was that he might not have thought so, if asked a few hours before. But now that the coyote was here, Kincaid could feel the outline of all that empty space. Now when he leaned into it, there was a coyote there. "I was. But I ain't anymore," he replied, wondering where this left him as far as searching for the coast went. He thought he'd like to introduce the girls to his coyote, and the coyote to his girls, but they were fine without him and now he was fine without them.

The lake glittered under the moonlight, its surface rippling with activity from down below. Kincaid waded into the water as soon as they drew near, even though his attention was still turned over his shoulder, at Shiloh. "I think you must be my guardian angel," he had decided. "That's how come you came when I called. You must've been listenin' for me."

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Ever adaptable, Shiloh did not mind he had to work doubly hard to keep up. He didn’t repeat his question, either, because talking was a chore while he was carrying the shiny stick. Soon they would stop, and now Kincaid had enough of his trust he didn’t mind setting it down around him. He also thought he could keep up well enough to follow him like a Komodo dragon after its slow-dying prey, and he would take it back. (If all this turned out to be just for the stick, which would make him a little sad.)

Kincaid understood after a moment, anyway, and his answer inspired a wag of the coyote’s tail. Perhaps this didn’t have to be a one night stand of companionship. He only smelled one wolf when he smelled Kincaid, after all, and he was just one coyote. Maybe they could be two.

He dropped the knife at the edge of the water and leapt onto a flat-topped rock that jutted into the black water.

“I was listening,” he agreed, though he didn’t remember what he had been doing, really. (He must have been listening, because he heard!) He thought he had been chasing after the moon, but now he could look and see it right there on top of the water, just a few feet away. He could swim to it from here. But what would he do with the moon? He had his shiny stick, and now he had a companion. At least for now.

He lowered to his belly and looked at the water, tail brushing the rock. He was quiet and still, however, because fishing didn’t call for chaotic coyote energy.

“I don’t know what angels do,” he admitted, “but you don’t need to be lonesome anymore.”

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Kincaid wasn't sure what angels did, either. Smite people, he thought. Come down from heaven and sleep with folks and make angel babies. He'd heard about that, too. Shiloh wasn't going to be having any babies, however (unless Kincaid was terribly mistaken), so at least a part of these plans were right out.

"If all you do is decorate rocks, I'll be just fine with that," he replied, and tried to turn his attention to fishing in earnest. He had to turn his back to Shiloh, but eventually, there was a fish almost big enough to share between them, and a slightly smaller fish that Kincaid brought to shore and played with before eventually eating it whole. After that, he was compliant with what Shiloh wanted, whether that was to caper through the fields some more, or hunt in earnest, or travel east or west or leeward, or even lie down to take another nap.

One thing is for certain: He is sticking to this coyote like glue.

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