Otter Creek burn the streets

the emberglow gaze of the spectre burns and burns as khepri drinks until, finally, enough is had and the golden prince of the dead looks up sharply and notes the cheshire grin formed upon half skeletal and half rotten muzzle, a slight motion in a direction that khepri, despite himself, feels his head turning towards. lapis lazuli gaze falls upon the pale cream colored wolf apparently frozen in his movements. khepri stares back, eyes following the languid movements of the omen as the illusion slinks upon the water, nearer and nearer to the pale boy in the distance.

a soft hiss escapes khepri's lips; a nonverbal communication for the omen to leave him be. the spectre, if the illusion hears it, ignores him like an insufferably imperious cat. hmph, the omen huffs. he's pretty... the illusion purls and khepri's gaze hardens as he focuses it upon the cream colored boy, and then to the tree limb near him. sticks weren't anything khepri considered collecting ...he tended to stick to his strict obsession with dead and pretty things.

that's a nice stick. khepri compliments idly, as he takes a step and then another step into the icy water, paws feeling each press of water smoothed rock of creek bed. just because he wouldn't collect it doesn't mean he can't admire other things. his attention drifts from the other boy to the water that rushes around his ankles. he squints down at the water and scoops up a mouthful of rocks before trudging back to the bank where he promptly drops them, nosing them in the grasses to remove creek bed silt to determine if any of them were worth keeping.

a glimpse is spared then towards the cream boy, assuming that he still remains. i'm khepri. he offers, ignoring the intent studying the impish illusion seems to be occupied with.

nanowrimo: 319