He had been unable to find Cwmfen, and his concern for her lingered still. That was why, even though it might have as well been a death wish, he continued to linger near Dahlia’s borders. If he spotted anyone besides the black Adonis he often ran. After several weeks his endurance training had paid off in a big way—not only was he much faster now, he could run longer then he had once been able to. Now he could run up the mountainside without stopping if he so chose (and often he did, just for the thrill of it).

     One of the Dahlian wolves had spotted him this afternoon, and so Ezekiel had run off again. The pace had slowed as he got further into the neutral territory. Though more often then not the boy stayed in his lupus form, he stopped and made the shift to optime on a whim. Stretching his arms over his head the coyote yawned widely and shook his bangs out of his face. He had gone on for about ten minutes undisturbed when he spotted the orange and white male near the tree. Curious, the coyote slowed his approach, but continued to move towards him.

     The stranger rose, which told Ezekiel one of two things; either he was nervous around coyotes or he would be aggressive. Either way, there was no sign in his companion’s body language that told him otherwise. Even the wolf’s face was a gargoyle’s grimace, flustered with irritation at something or another. Vaguely, Ezekiel was aware that his muscles had tensed, responding to the subconscious command that he be prepared. Once, he had not been. Once was enough to nearly take out his eye and disfigure his face.
     Both ears swiveled forward, though his approached slowed slightly. “Hey,” he responded, amber eyes focused on the other young man’s face. Certainly, something was troubling him. It wasn’t the coyote’s place, and he knew better then to ask, but his mouth was working on its own. “What’s eating you?”

     Training had told him these things. Tristan, even though he had so very much resembled a wolf, was no purebred. When the two had wandered too close to other wolves they had been hounded; Ezekiel more so, for his blood. Tristan had been absolutely vicious then; showing a side that he rarely did. For these reasons, and for the stories his father had told him and his sister when they were children, he studied the movement. He watched and he waited, cat-like. Both ears rose to a crown on his head, pale hair falling around his face, listening to the explination that he was given.
     “Yeah, I believe that,” he said, a vicious light in his eyes. Despite this, a peculiar smile had come over his face. “This bitch that used to be part of our clan took off for a wolf. After all the shit I did for her, you’d think she’d at least have the decency to stick around. Count your losses—you’ve still got a pretty face, eh?” As he said this, the left side of his face bunched slightly, showing his teeth and crinkling the scars over his eye. Though this was a humorous thought to him, and indeed a commentary about himself, Ezekiel was oblivious to the fact he had just turned himself into a dragon.

     All of a sudden, things clicked. It fell into place with a mechanical click, as solidly as a brass clock. Ezekiel’s eyes went remarkably hollow. His body turned still, though he could feel electricity rushing up from the ground. There was no noise; that much he had learned from the demon crow-wolf. The tips of his fingers twitched, his claws extended, and then without a further warning the coyote moved.
     He had been trained very little in this form. There was not half-so much power in it as belonged to wolves, and on four legs he had speed. Now he moved only on impulse, based on the only encounters he had known. Mongrels, wolf-dogs and other coyotes, strangers in city ruins that carried strange colors and spoke in various tongues. Ezekiel’s hands moved independently; he went for the orange-wolf’s stomach and towards the ribs simultaneous. For all of this, he made no sound. He was nothing more than a mechanical soldier.

     They should have been brothers-in-arms, but Ezekiel carried a dark resentment. He hated the fact that something he had invested so much time and care into had abandoned him. His mother had done the same thing, and it sickened him to his stomach every time he thought of that fact. Perhaps that was why he had come after the stranger, Haven, without any thought beyond violence. Ezekiel needed someone to understand, and he could not speak this. The only way he could communicate was through his body, through pain and blood.
     Any sort of placidity left his face, and he staggered back at the shove. “Fuck you,” he spat, fur bristling. They would understand one another when this was over. Both had been hurt, and betrayed, and even though it should have been Siobhan who took the brunt of his anger it was Haven who had to. With another burst of speed, the coyote pushed forward and threw his hand towards the wolf’s face.

When Zeke comes back they should be. :]

     Inhale. First blood. Ezekiel was a soldier—he was not bound by honor and ridiculous ideas of the old world. That world had trained him twice over. Yet for this, he knew only violence. He knew the world of the grunt. He had not killed yet, but he believed he would soon. Deep in that ruined city, where the coyote had called him a word he did not understand, he had seen his future. It had been with him since he had been born, those ghosts that had become him, but until then he had not known what they were.
     His first ghost was blood. Ezekiel followed through with his body, but Haven had left him. Then, quite suddenly, a sword was in his face. Instantly, he froze. Blonde hair obscured his face, but his eyes remained bright. He wanted Haven to understand that this was not about him. That he was sorry. And maybe he could say this through his eyes, and maybe he could not. The Hydra said nothing further; silently, slowly, he backed away from the tip of the blade. He left the way he had come.