(Sorry so short, but I want to at least keep things moving.)
Ashtar knew what the people around him were saying, that a dead man had returned to walk. It sent a chill up his spine, and he had to see for himself.
Like a piece of furniture he had gone unnoticed in the backroom of the sheriff's office, so easily could he blend in with the environment and move about without making a sound. By the time Angpetu or Cyrus realized he was there, he was already crouching over a splash of blood on the floor near the open window where Westbrook had escaped.
The shaman reached his hand down over the blood. "Good spirits are carried by the eagle to the sky, but this spirit goes to the wolf instead." He started blathering on some native, superstitious bullshit. Creepily, he touched the blood to his middle fingertip and brought it to his left eye, painting a red line straight down his cheek. He repeated the process with the other eye. "...the wolf is hungry and angry. It isn't finished eating." He got up and suprisingly silently, his soft mocassins gently padding across the wood, went over to the window and looked out cautiously into the now fairly dark outdoors. After a moment of a glassy gaze, he pulled back frowning. "Hmm. The wolf moves swift."
Ashtar looked at the others, who couldn't help but stare at him with either awe or cynicism or both. The possibility of dead people getting up and causing problems apparently wasn't new to him. He folded his arms, realizing the white people might not quite get what was going on. He blinked calmly, sighing, then shrugged. "So. Does... anyone need a drink?" It was impossible to tell if he was serious or making a joke.
