Even after several months, Hunting Fox hated Heaven.
Fox hated the shining pavements, the fantasical buildings, the glarish complexities of all things. And Fox hated how the passing gods and spirits stared and tutted, gossiping about how the latest Chosen of Endings was neither man nor woman, but one in between, and a barbarian to boot.
He hurried for the Heavenly Gate, a leather sachel bouncing against her back. He wasn’t tall, but a nervous hunch made her shorter still. A curtain of rough-cut black hair concealed his pale, northern features. Tiny scars marked her face and hands, each a trace of blood spilled to feed his magics. She wore a fine purple kimono,as instructed, but it was wrapped over the thick furs of an Icewalker.
Soon he would be in Creation again. She would walk on bare earth, feel the sting of snow and traffic with the dead, as a shaman should. His master had commanded that she not return until a vicious cult of cannibals had been dispersed. Hunting Fox looked forward to it.