Winter 23, 511 AV
The air was dead and crisp and a sun in a cloudless sky barely touched the clay-colored earth with its warm fingers through winter’s thick chill.
“Dog. Here, Dog.” A voice called, followed by a sharp whistle, through the crisp winter air. “Dog. Here, Dog.”
The lilt of the voice was oddly empty, a shadow of what it could have been. The whistle repeated itself, and another, identical Dog, here Dog, was uttered. It seemed like a fruitless effort; before finally, a shaggy brown beast lifted its head from a wooden crate—empty, save for a rat equally zealous in its foraging—and plodded towards what it assumed would be a better source to fill its empty belly.
Instead, he found Jag.
The bird sat squat on top of an embellished archway, head cocked to one side so that a single yellow eye leered, unblinking, at the prize of his efforts. His beak hung open, unmoving, and another Dog, here Dog emerged from him, followed by a ruffling of glossy brown feathers. Dog barked. Jag started, scurried sideways across the sign fixed above the stone arch, and turned his other eye on Dog. Dog barked again; however, instead of balking, the bird screeched, withdrew his head, and began to incessantly repeat the mocking call. DOG, HERE DOG! DOG, HERE DOG! The game soon turned into a display of who was louder, to the inevitable chagrin of anyone in or around the Blinding Light Studio.