art by crypsis
If he had not listened to Ezekiel for most of his childhood, Max might of thought him mad. Their metaphors and pseudo-science of demonology and folklore were archaic effects of lives based around such mythology. They were driven by these ideas and held them tightly, well aware that they were based on some truth. Max knew what his father was. Ezekiel had nearly been killed by a Lord of Hell. How could they deny this unseen world now, then?
A hand touched him and Max instinctively stiffened. Touch was connected to combat for him and always had been. He disliked behind held, disliked being touched—he could not shake the memory of his mother’s too-hard blows or too-deep teeth. Abuse had fashioned him into a creature fearful of such things. Now, though, he was capable of fighting back. He was capable of hurting those who would hurt him.
Ezekiel’s words settled with him and helped to ease his doubts. This was the man he knew, if only raw and worn by the weight of days. These were familiar stories.
“Are we going after them?” He asked, hopeful that this was the case. The waiting was madness, and it was a dull, grinding madness that he hated.
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