Lion Head Mesa infidel

He could not stand there watching for long; there was a sharp-bodied mutt crossing the courtyard to the hemet quarters, and before Drusk could find a new place to go, he was set upon.

The wild face of something not quite wolf, not quite coyote, scythed through the doorway and forced Drusk back, lest he be caught by teeth; everything in this place reeked of the dogs. It was a momentary hesitation as self-preservation flared within him. He saw too the reluctance of the attacker as their snaps did not seek his flesh or catch even in his fur; maybe a bluff, maybe insufficient practice, but he was driven backwards among the collected paraphernalia.

The voice commanding from outside held authority and was impossible not to hear. However, Drusk did not know he was being ordered outside, only that there were teeth before him and potential harm out there in the light.

The boy was rumbling a warning, pacing in the confinement of the room; his heel catching a sleeping-fur, his shoulder brushing a collection of something precious on a shelf which would fall and break, but his eyes were on the doorway and the body standing in his way.

Ejervalat shafka. His words carried the rumble in his chest until it broke like the snapping of stormy air, and became a snarl; it was his only warning to get those teeth back and away, and then he lunged for Legend.

If she moved out of the way in time he would emerge in to the light with spittle flying from his lips; scowling, squinting. Otherwise, he would aim his considerable strength and all of his own inherent desperation (as any cornered animal would) at her face, her neck, her anything, to grab and throw in to the wall, as he sought space for himself.

However it would pan out — one way or another he would be free of this room and standing before the awaiting Zaahira, in a stare-down.