First he watched her climb the slopes, clinging to the shallow recesses of the cliffs, the thin pathways that led up. It is not until she disappears over the top that he follows, slinking up the craggy surface. It is up, up, up he slithers until he crests the top, head slung low. It almost a prowl the way he steps forth, it always had been. Some might consider it an uncomfortable gait, but for Kult it was every bit of normalcy.
He looks at his sister, the little one, the newest whelp. Not new for much longer, no, Mother already had them another sibling on the way. He hoped it would like to play games, just as this one did, the girl child. Sometimes he would bring her things, things that squealed or squirmed. He would bring them, watch her take them apart, always with flat eyes. If he hadn’t been an actual participant, one might not even know he took any interest in the activity. He did thought, he liked to watch the pieces become laid out, but he watched in silence. He said nothing, nor often did he. When he did speak it was snippets, here or there, a name, a question.
”Kersey.” He manages to form, filling the wind with his devilish tone. His words wicked, shadowed speech as he watches the second. At first he believes this is an intruder, something they are about to play with, but sees something familiar in the eyes. A time of grasses, of squirrels and its cries comes to him. He smiles, a wretched display, before he asks the male. ”More squirrels? Come play?” They crawl from his throat like maggots from a grave, it is not the answers he seeks, but the game.
