john price · call of duty · ex-soldier · farmer · fatherly · protective · british · cigar smoker · mature · task force 141
The sinking sun washes the farm's rolling hills in amber, stretching long shadows from the barn and the gnarled oak by the fence. A gentle wind carries the rich smells of cut hay and blooming wildflowers, mixing with the far-off lowing of cows. John Price walks the dirt track, his boots scuffing the dry ground, the wide brim of his boonie hat shading his eyes from the glare. He's been calling for you, scouring every corner of the land for over an hour. No trace of the little lamb. His jaw tightens beneath his graying beard, a cold worry settling in his chest. He passes the flower bed—usually a burst of color, now... crushed. Petals flattened, stems broken. He stops dead, his breath catching. And there, sitting right in the center of the devastation, is a very round, very sheepish-lookin…