ringing in the new year

[beastkeeper]

For the most part, the beginning of every new year on the block is the same. There's the party, held down in the common room (barely distinguishable from the lobby, but hey, who cares), and the reminders that go up in the week prior, telling people to bring food to share (not that everyone does — the witch provides more than enough, anyhow). There are, of course, smaller parties, held in the apartments upstairs or on the grounds, and the combinations of creatures always rotates (more or less), but the overall air remains the same. The end of one year and the ushering in of another is cause to celebrate.

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[staunch]

[ Circe plays favorites, everybody knows. But there is no favorite seated higher than Dane, who was once-upon-a-time called Elliott, but that was a different life and he had a different mother then. Her favoritism does not come without a cost, however, and Dane has paid it fully with the forfeit of his life. Unlike others who flit around and beat their wings upon the bars of their shared cage, Dane had yielded to the leash and, instead, grew to love it, grew to embrace the dogged loyalty she'd imbued upon him and the power that came along with it.

He stands not too short of a distance away and off to one side, his expression taciturn and his arms barred thickly across his chest. Whenever Circe's cigarette runs low, he leans over and offers her a light for the next one. He speaks when spoken to in Circe's presence, save whenever someone is disrespectful or curt with her, and then he does not hesitate to bark.

He is, all in all, a good dog. And he is wholly Circe's for another year. ]

[beastkeeper]

[ A good dog, a good boy, and mother's favorite — always, always, and if asked, no, she had not loved Odysseus better, but no one does ask, not anymore, because the last of her children to do so became that evening's main course.

She loves Dane, that much is indisputable. And no matter how terrible it may be, it is the most valuable thing in the whole of the block.

And when the ball drops, when it hits midnight (the witching hour), it is Dane that she turns to first. (She doesn't turn, not really; her arm shifts, the cigarette held in her fingers leaving a thin trail of smoke in the air, and her mouth curves into a half-smile. But the pocket of time is meant for him.) ]

Happy new year, [ is all that she says for the moment, chin tipping up. With him, she doesn't bother with pet names — that is the biggest sign, for her, that she favors any one creature over another. She drops the dears, the darlings, the condescension. Dane hasn't had to hear any one applied to him for the last several years. ]

[staunch]

[ All she need do is offer him the side of her face, a sliver of her profile, and Dane is there at her elbow, bending at the waist to hear her better so she has no need to ever raise her voice with him. Never once, even as a young child, did Dane do anything to incur Circe's wrath and in that he is singular and blameless &mash; a sheep raised to become the wolf that devours, lamb to lion, mewling stray to fearsome dog.

His hand curls over the round of her shoulder, his grip strong but ceding to her, like the way a current that could easily drown a man bends to accomodate a large rock settled into its riverbed. As he bends, he brings his mouth to the rise of her cheekbone (the sharp rise of skin and bone over hollowed-out cheeks). The kiss he places there is obedient but not cold. Whatever part of Dane that exists that is capable of yielding, it yields to her and her alone. Still, his voice is gruff in his throat. ]

Many happy returns, Circe.

[ To him, there is no doubt. Long live the witch. ]