Jory yawned and starched under his arm. He rolled on his straw filled mat on the ground and smacked his lips. His lean to of old willow wood and white oak had walls on three sides and opened up to the central area. There were holes in the woven braches but that let the air flow through as well as the starlight.
Jory was part of the pack but he liked his own little space. His three sided hut was his spot to brood, to find peace, and to keep his stuff. Not that he had much stuff. But Jory did have a treasure box, an old cigar box he found on a hunt. It wasn’t cardboard but a thin wood with a faded picture of some over stacked sexy broad smoking, not only from the cigar in her lips but from between her legs as well. Jory liked the box. He kept a few things inside and didn’t share it with anyone. It was tucked in-between two twigs and his mat in the corner.
Jory dirty finger nails dug under his arm pit as he sat up on his mat. Damn he thought, must had screwed that in heat dame in a pile of poison ivy. He smiled at the thought wondering where the rash must be on her body. With a chuckle he stood up and sniffed the air. Ah, dinner. Someone even took the time to cook the meat tonight. He briefly wondered if the fact they were gathering for a heated meal meant they was some big group meeting in the works. He was still new to the order of things.
He wandered over to the huge tent and sniffed the fires as he passed by. He once again found a seat not in his usually place. Jory always was amazed at how easily everyone sat in the same seat over and over. Each had his or her place. Not Jory. He made it a point to sit in a different place ever time. Caused a bit of cold looks when he took someone’s seat. He sort of enjoyed that small discomfort.
Just as the bell rang Jory found a seat right by the head of the table, a place he didn’t seek very often. But what the heck. He smiled, his dimple creased his cheek and he sat.
“Smell’s good.” He said as he looked to those around. “Makes my fangs water.”