He'd just passed his examination into second year (theoretically speaking, considering he hadn't gotten Professor Malcom's pin, but that didn't mean he wasn't still a Knob) and they were closing the school.
Sparrow had not felt this angry in a long time.
"They're giving up," he muttered to himself, pacing back and forth on the grounds of Amityville High, a few feet away from the crowds that were still milling about in front of the heavily locked and protected gates. "They're feeding us to the wolves, letting us believe we're incompetent. Who do they think they are, anyway?"
The bogeymen were sadly mistaken if they thought they could close Amityville down so easily. Arel had already managed to wrangle them some extra time, though it wasn't much. Twenty four hours may not have seemed hardly enough time to prove their worth, but to Sparrow it was just enough - and by the sounds of the students around him, he wasn't the only one who thought so. There were crashes, bursts of fire, gusts of wind, wings flapping, tails lashing, a few roars, and some mumbling, grunting, and clear concentration from every student determined to assist the school in this undertaking.
Sparrow held out his hand, looking down at his gloved palm as though examining it carefully. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, slowly curling his fingers together, almost in an experimental fashion.
A small wisp of dark smoke curled free from and melted away. Then more smoke appeared, billowing and tumbling from his palm, some of it dissipating into the air into nothingness, most of it beginning to stretch out and form the beginnings of something long handled and black. Within a few seconds the scythe had solidified completely, Sparrow spinning it around to hold it properly in both hands, lying flat across his palms.
This was his weapon, after all - what he would use to defend both himself and the school, with as much strength as he could manage. The thought of Amityville closing...
It was almost too painful a thought to even think of. Though Sparrow both loved and highly respected his parents, and he got along well with his brothers and sisters, he was not about to just give up and go back home to them as though nothing was wrong.
Everything was wrong. And he was not going to just stand by and let it go past him if there was something he could do.
The scythe spun around in Sparrow's fingers, then swung downwards, the point slamming into the earth beneath his feet. Shadows bubbled from the tip, curling around his feet and the box that would meter his output of FEAR. He yanked the scythe up, smoke billowing, and let it dissipate into nothingness, bending down to pick up the box. Without another word, he carried it back to the gates.
[ 'the chill' healing > 16 ]
