Ouroboros II | The Wolf

22 | Ira Rule And The Bronze Snake

The ground began to settle beneath Ira's boots as the remainder of the Beast's entwined body was pulled from its tomb-like burrow of mulch, rotten vegetation, and soft root-filled earth. Despite the filth it had been nesting in, the snake was pure as gold. Its yellow scales glimmered a sort of fire-filled copper under the dimming evening sun. It roared a hiss loud enough to shake mountains, flashing fangs as large as vaulting poles. The snake twisted and convulsed, winding itself into knots as its gleaming black eyes searched for the source of the scent floating in-between the tree trunks. A perfume that Ira was sure smelled a whole lot like dinner to the Beast. 

The snake twitched, snapping its jaws at a creaking tree before slamming the length of its bronze belly against the soil. It seemed in a frenzy, curling and twisting to lash out at wherever it thought Ira could be. Luckily--or maybe not so luckily, it depended on how bad the bruises were going to be in the morning--their tumble had removed them from the viper's immediate area. The two had landed in a line of dense brush that the snake seemed blind to--or, maybe it was more than the brush the snake had trouble deciphering. It bared its fangs at its own tail, hissing and spitting at the writhing golden scales. 

Ira recalled another one of his troublesome late nights--when all that existed in his foggy mind was David Attenborough, the color blue leaking in through the living room window from a nearby billboard, a cup of coffee he couldn't quite taste, and a TV program about the hunting habits of desert dwellers. 

Although given his current position, all that seemed relevant was the fifteen minutes dedicated to the diamondback. Ira could still remember bits and flashes. Some made more clear by the golden viper ahead of him. Namely, that Ira could name the two nostril like slits under the Beast's gleaming black eyes. If Ira was right they were pits--heat-seeking orifices meant to aid the snake's sight in the dark wooded forest. Rattlesnakes were night-hunters. They had poor eyes, relying on the addition of their pit organs to find prey. 

Not that the viper king was a rattler. It was about a thousand sizes too big and its gleaming tail ended in an unceremonial rump. A stubby appendage that it battered against the ground, sending up puffs of crushed leaves and splintered wood. 

The only indication of species on the snake that Ira could cling to were the two winged flaps on the sides of its head. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that reminded him king cobras didn't have pits--because what cobras did have was eyesight spanning more than three-hundred feet and Ira could have really used a break.

He knew it wasn't enough to form any sort of plan off. He was relying too much on a knife in the dark. Nothing he could hold onto or declare with any sort of determination. He forced his mind to calm, grinding to a slower pace. One that could absorb before reacting. So what if the snake had poor eyesight? Ira's body still emitted heat. It still had scent--his heart beat with audible thumps, his steps cracked over kindling. He had to think--he needed more. 

Ira leaned towards Mayvalt, pitching his voice down into a soft rumble that barely crossed the space between them. But she heard it. He knew she did the second her ears twitched and her eyes fluttered towards him, head tilted in listening.

"'The King of the Field', you said. Do you know this guy?" He asked. 

She scoffed and stabbed at the mulch with the tip of her bo. Her fingers slid down the staff, slick with mud. "You're the demonologist here." 

"Says the girl who puts demon into demonology." Ira remarked dryly. Prompted by her scornful glare he quickly added, "I'm better at stabbing than studying."

"You don't know the King of the Field?" She scoffed. Ira shook his head lightly. "The Bronze Snake? The Great Brass Snake? Father of the Fiery Flying Serpents? Nehushtan? Nothing, really? What kind of choir boy are you?"  She sputtered, her tone increasingly flustered with each shake of his golden curls.