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Hunh? What's that smell? Odd, yet familiar...
Miguel was almost asleep. He was tired, seeking to rest before going his way. He finally had something to defend himself, but he was impaired. He could not abuse of his power, as he felt the waning power around the area. He could sense some objects to which he could draw some energy: possibly batteries, but those provided low energy and were usually hard to drain. Power cords were almost dead, and no energy source of proper charge was available in miles around, as far as he could...
Sense? Since when did he could sense the power around himself? He had grown awareness of energy since the vision; now, he could feel, almost as if he could touch, the wisps of energy around. His awareness was not long and stranded; he couldn't feel what kind of object had that wisp, he only knew there were wisps of energy roaming around, surrounding him, dying. The entire city was in blackout, and he was the largest source of power in miles. And even he was drained; only a bit of energy left to allow him to act without feeling dizzy, without feeling sluggish. He could use that bit of power, but he would feel slow again, and his ability to fend off for himself would be crippled even more.
But his senses apparently were fooling him. It was a delightful smell...or it would be, if it were not because of the smell of burnt carcass masking it. He was no hound, the smell was good at times and repugnant at others. A bit of smoke entered the area, and sounds of steps were heard at the distance, breaking the stoic silence of the store he was located. Then, he heard as if someone stumbled, and the sound of something breaking. He was curious, and he wanted to know. Hiding the knife around, he grabbed the stick and helped himself to walk around. The new clothes were comfortable enough, although he didn't liked the colors: after all, he was in a military supplies shop. Camo wasn't a color pattern he liked. Thinking about the military brought him rare shivers down his spine, as if somehow, those memories far away resented the activity of the military forces; as if he knew the military forces did something so wrong, he cannot forgive.
Miguel walked outside of his hiding place. He saw as a woman and a large beast, unusual for the climate and place, were outside of what it seemed another location. For the first time, he realized there were more people around. Indeed, his vision had truly impaired his senses. But...if he could not notice them, then how did they couldn't notice him? He was throwing stones at a large beast just recently, how could his actions be ignored by so many, including a dog so large it could tear him alone?
Then he chuckled. The woman was funny; in a moment where silence reigned, making such a silly comment as "it tastes like chicken" surely broke the tension felt in the air. The chuckle was enough to let anyone know someone else was there; the sound echoed in the makeshift hallway, even though the wind could howl in between the passage. And so it did; no less than Miguel began to chuckle, that the large hound gave him a swift look. Miguel gulped his laugh, and looked with tiresome eyes at the hound, who was apparently startled by his appearance. He could hear the hound growling as if he could feel a bad presence; judging by the surroundings, it was growling at him. He lowered his sight, and pondered upon how terrible he must have been, that even the noble beasts resented him. He slanted his head, and muttered a slight phrase, almost like a prayer.
"<Lord, watch over your herd so it may not be led astray>"
His prayer was like a whisper, spoken in Nahuatl, in the language of the conquering Aztecs. Briefly, in his mind, he felt the voice of an old man, a wise man, telling him.
"<Now listen up. Whenever you feel threatened, just speak this deep upon yourself and with faith. Small problems will be drawn away, just like that!>" It was a brief flashback, one merely uneventful or shocking, but it was important to him. He prayed almost reflexively, and neither in his native nor his adopted language, but in the language of his ancestors. And...it seemed to work. The growling hound stopped. If anything, he could swear he saw the beast puzzled by what had just happened, with an odd slant on its head. Miguel gave his thanks to whichever was the owner of that voice, because his words helped him and comforted him.
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