Wheeling Gull Isle these lights are way too loud

It had been two weeks since he'd arrived on the island, not that he was able to conciously keep track of anything. The herbal remedies kept the boy pretty distant from all the goings-on. He slept sporadically now (usually with the help of poppies) and had grown further dependent on the help of the medics; but he was getting better, even if it didn't seem like it. The bruising to his flesh had already decreased - almost vanished - and the wound to his throat had been well tended, leading to a nasty scar resembling the fanning wings of a hawk in flight.

It was his ribs that kept him awake now, though. They were knitting back in to place and rebuilding themselves, however the pain had begun to peak in the past few hours. He couldn't take a breath without immense pain, and in his agitation the boy had begun to snap at anyone that came near. He shouldn't have been moving — any rational beast would've known that — but he wasn't rational, he was in too much pain. Offerings of herbs were hastily devoured, leaving him adrift for much of the afternoon but still as irascible as ever.