05-28-2009, 08:51 AM
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For nearly two months, Ezekiel had been laid up. He had spent the first two weeks dealing with remarkable pain. While he had asked his father repeatedly to find him pain medication, Gabriel had outright refused. The threat of addiction was one all too real in their bloodline, and while Ezekiel had understood that, it had made him furious. His father had taken the rage in stride, along with the panic, the night terrors, the days when he had broken down completely because everything hurt more then he had ever imagined it could.
Then, slowly, things began to heal. After the first month he was mobile again, though both father and son had followed Corona’s instructions diligently. His training had not resumed until a few days ago, and he had been rusty. Still, he intended to push himself hard. Two months was a lifetime. Stalking through the tall grass, he was nearly invisible—a mottled mix of gold and brown-black, meant for land like this. A peculiar scent made his path alternate, and all too soon he emerged from the tall grass and found the source. The boy was nothing remarkable; the weapon in his hands was. Ezekiel froze, and a terrible darkness crossed through his face. He cared as little for those dishonorable and terrible weapons of man as he did for the air of the stranger. “What do you want?” Short; snappy; he sounded nothing like himself. [/html]