nettles (p)
Feb 19, 2015 22:50:44 GMT -5
Post by spook on Feb 19, 2015 22:50:44 GMT -5
SOME PRECAUTION WOULDN’T HARM MY HISTORY
IF I HAD THE WILL TO WAIT A LITTLE WHILE
IF I HAD THE WILL TO WAIT A LITTLE WHILE
Alhambra’s thin coat ill prepared him for winter in an unfamiliar city. The descent of the city into a more frigid array of temperatures did little to palliate his perpetually foul mood—indeed, he’d found exceedingly little worthy of anything but his scorn. Their transition to Cascaro hadn’t gone as planned, and it hadn’t gone smoothly—at least for the brindle longdog. For all he knew, Lark was off carousing with the best of them, as was her usual wont. It irked him, just a niggling little scintilla of irritation at the thought of it—mostly because his attachment to her went beyond a simple regard for his duty. Mostly because the thought of Lark carousing with anyone made him fucking crazy.
Twitching a little, Alhambra paused in his elastic stride to brace himself and shake hard, his face twisted into an expression of disgust. Snow had begun to fall just a few minutes ago, although only the lightest veneer of white clouds had pulled across the previously blue sky. He sniffed haughtily, focused entirely on loathing everything in the general vicinity. Every search, everything, had resulted in a goddamn blank lead, a dead end, or a smart-talking assface who’d talked him in circles. This—fucking city. He’d thought the miserable cesspool they’d come from had been bad, but now it seemed positively glamorous.
At least he’d had a reputation there. He thought with almost a smile about the distinct feeling of walking into a gathering of dogs and having all of them acquiesce, relent, depart, simply at the sight of him. Nobody had known him, of course, because all of his contacts had secrets to keep and reputations to nurture, but they’d all known of him. Strictly on principle, of course. And he’d dearly treasured that reputation of being Lark’s shadow, of lashing out at her enemies without a second’s warning. Once established, it’d been simple work to allow it to flourish through rumors and subfuscuous half-threats.
Now—still standing in the middle of a barren field, he cast his scornful gaze around his surroundings. Nothing—just crumbled stone, remnants of some civilization that nobody cared about any longer. That nobody remembered. Alhambra felt neglected and he knew his pettish anger was silly and foolish but that didn’t keep him from feeling so. Shaking off again, the greyhound paced to the nearest crumbling wall and hoisted himself atop it in a smooth bound. The vantage did nothing to alleviate his foul temper—he just felt grumpy and higher. His only hope remained that some dog would miraculously appear from the light flurries of snow and amuse him.
ooc. for WARDOG