77th of Ash, 4621
Proceeding the experiments in the fortress dungeons, Arkash was given some much-needed rest with some less taxing activities. Part of the deal was that he would be trained in the art of Necromancy, at least to a degree where he was comfortable operating on others. After the events with Reiss, and the unfortunate result of his surgery on her arm, it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to teach himself the ins and outs of Necromancy.
The body was a complicated thing, he realized. The smallest little offset could turn the entire system on its head, from differences in temperature to the thickness of the blood. In Reiss’s case, Arkash had missed the connection of nerves, tiny roots beneath the muscles and bones, responsible for shuttling information between the body and mind, one such signal was movement. Reiss was suddenly unable to move or feel her arm, because Arkash had merely welded the appendage back on, but Raphael immediately recognized the problem and fixed it with something he called Sinew threads.
Though it was obvious that he had a lot to learn, the fact that Raphael was able to undo the damage caused by Necromancy with necromancy gave him hope.
So, in the dark of the Veir’s laboratory, Arkash practiced with the Mortar and pestle, grinding meat into the milky white paste that was called Sinew Foam. He’d already gotten that far with Reiss, but the Veir had oversight on his technique, the very motion of his wrist was off, which his tutor was oh-so-quick to point out. “Listen, lizard,” began the noble. “I know your line of work involves the violent stabbing of… Various things, but we’re in a Laboratory now,” he declared, snooty in his tone. He seized the Rathor’s wrist and guided his hand around in circles. “You don’t want to stab the mortar… The mortar is your friend, and the pestle is blunt…”
Arkash’s brow flattened, and he looked upon the Veir with obvious disdain in his features. How could one man be so good at aggravating him? Promptly, he pulled his wrist away from the man, and turned his back while he continued to grind the paste. “I’m not an idiot,” Arkash spoke with a curl of his nose. Though he knew that the mage was smiling at the back of his head, he tried not to think about it. Part of him thought it a petty excuse to withhold his anger, but he didn’t want Raphael to know he could affect him so badly.
Even so, he took on board the direction, and ground the paste into the mortar with the Master’s input. He’d be a fool to ignore the advice, even if he wanted to dismiss the mage out of spite.
“Your temper will be the death of you, you know,” Raphael warned, a smile in his tone. “Daravin isn’t the sort of empire where you want to go about with your heart on your sleeve, Rath. You’d do well to keep it in your chest,” the Noble explained with a cruel twist to his tone. “But that’s easier said than done for those that deal in death, isn’t it?”
Arkash rolled his eyes, then set the Mortar aside with the pestle standing up in the bowl. “What’s next?” He asked, dismissing the Noble’s speech with a turn of his head.
The Veir was quiet for a moment, and Arkash reveled in the angry silence that preceded the brief, amused scoff that came from the Veir’s lips. He thought for a moment, while Arkash watched him, then directed his gaze to the unconscious soldier on the operating table. “Next, we’re going to apply the Sinew foam. Go ahead and scrape all of that mess into the Sinew Gun, and I’ll show you how to use it.”
From memory, Arkash unlocked the back of the weapon, then poured the contents of the Mortar into the back. Keeping hold of both the gun and the grinding utensil was awkward in his claws, and Raphael seemed to notice.
“Careful… If you get any of the foam on you, it’ll attach to your body and set there.”
The rath furrowed his brow. Wasn’t that great to think about when he was trying to focus? Accidentally adding unwanted flesh to his hands? Sinew foam was reactive with the first biological matter to touch it, in that it transformed into the exact same material from the outside in. It was useful for many applications, but more complex wounds were beyond the use of Sinew Foam.
As the Rath lined himself up with the unconscious Soldier’s wound, Raphael parted his lips to speak again. “…Why do you deal in death, little Rath?” Back on the subject Arkash had dismissed.
“How hard do I squeeze?” He spoke with a gesture to the gun, finger on the trigger. His eyes locked gazes with Raphael while the man sorted through his anger to find an answer to the question.
After a moment, he nodded with a hard-pressed jaw. “Gently at first, then press harder as you see fit. Just use your judgment,” partway through his annoyed tone, he changed to a more factual, instructive stance. “The goal is to completely fill every gap in the wound, you don’t want to miss anything, understand?”
Arkash nodded a little, it made sense. Once he’d gently eased the nozzle of the gun against the wound, a jagged, torn crevice in the skin, he gently squeezed the trigger to dispense the sinew foam in its deepest part. He made sure to completely squeeze the material into the wound, which took on the makeup of muscle and various layers of skin and fat as it gradually filled the wound, and spilled over.
“Don’t worry about using too much,” the Veir spoke on cue, “if anything, it’s better to use too much than too little; we can always turn it back into Sinew Foam once we carve it.”
Such was reassuring to the Rath, wasting was something he was conditioned to avoid. His brow furrowed suspiciously at the thought. Raphael knew he was raised in squalor, and that something like waste would bother him. Why did he take the time to try and ease his worries? The Veir was anything but caring or perceptive… Unless he wanted something.
With a sigh, Arkash finished off filling in the wound, then set the gun on the table before he leaned into the surface and thought for a moment. With a degree of intrigue in his tone, Raphael asked “what is it?”
“What do you want?” Arkash returned, direct and confrontational. His head body lifted from the lean on the table, and he turned to face the human fully. “All these questions, now you’re being considerate when you’re usually a jerk.” He’d wanted to use harsher words to address the man, for that was truly what he thought of Raphael, but he stayed his tongue out of guilt. Why? The man had imprisoned him and blackmailed him into service. He owed Raphael no care or consideration.
But that was the point of the Necromancer’s kindness, to weaken his walls and lower his guard, to get the Rathor to lay down his arms. The Veir grinned beneath his mask, then parted his lips to speak. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“I’m not playing your Candor bullshit!” Arkash declared with clenched fists, stern and unyielding in his resolve. “I don’t care what you say or how you treat me, I’m NOT trusting you, EVER!” By the end of his rant, his teeth were bared and his posture was leaned forward to stare down the human.
Raphael didn’t flinch, he simply stood with his hands behind his back, grinning at the Rathor. “But you are- Playing the Candor, I mean,” the other man affirmed with utter confidence.
“…How?” Arkash quizzed in turn. It wasn’t all that unbelievable that the man had somehow managed to gather some information from him, just in the few sentences he’d spoken; the Entente were ruthless in their analysis, ever-observant of the people around them, constantly reading mannerisms, tone, eye contact. Was it really any wonder he’d been discovered in the first place?
A brief chuckle left the Veir’s lips while he pondered. Should he tell the Rath what he’d learned? “Well, I can tell you’re hiding something. Why else would you be so angry over a little prodding…? You might just be paranoid.” He began to pace slowly, methodically with his hands behind him, continuing his explanation. “It goes without saying that you don’t trust me, you already know I’m trying to pick you apart, figure out what’s going on in that head of yours. Your disposition is set against me before we’ve even begun… Not that I didn’t expect that, you do have a history with Nobility, after all…” Raphael sighed finally. “I still can’t tell if you mean to betray me, or to kill my blackmail and end me before I can receive your mark… But the more I speak with you, the more I begin to suspect…”
The Rathor fell into silence at that, wide eyes peering at the noble from where he stood at the operating table. Raphael met his gaze once, grinned his teeth, then shook his head with a slight dip. His silence was all the Veir needed in confirmation.
“You look surprised, Lizard,” he started, and shook his head. “Don’t be; I’m just messing with you,” he assured, and Arkash breathed a sigh of relief. “A little joke of ours who partake in the Candor, assume the worst with vague little tells…” With that, Raphael brought his arm to hold the Rath’s shoulder and placed the carving sickle in his other hand before closing the Rathor’s fingers around it. “Shall we continue?”
Proceeding the experiments in the fortress dungeons, Arkash was given some much-needed rest with some less taxing activities. Part of the deal was that he would be trained in the art of Necromancy, at least to a degree where he was comfortable operating on others. After the events with Reiss, and the unfortunate result of his surgery on her arm, it was obvious that he wouldn’t be able to teach himself the ins and outs of Necromancy.
The body was a complicated thing, he realized. The smallest little offset could turn the entire system on its head, from differences in temperature to the thickness of the blood. In Reiss’s case, Arkash had missed the connection of nerves, tiny roots beneath the muscles and bones, responsible for shuttling information between the body and mind, one such signal was movement. Reiss was suddenly unable to move or feel her arm, because Arkash had merely welded the appendage back on, but Raphael immediately recognized the problem and fixed it with something he called Sinew threads.
Though it was obvious that he had a lot to learn, the fact that Raphael was able to undo the damage caused by Necromancy with necromancy gave him hope.
So, in the dark of the Veir’s laboratory, Arkash practiced with the Mortar and pestle, grinding meat into the milky white paste that was called Sinew Foam. He’d already gotten that far with Reiss, but the Veir had oversight on his technique, the very motion of his wrist was off, which his tutor was oh-so-quick to point out. “Listen, lizard,” began the noble. “I know your line of work involves the violent stabbing of… Various things, but we’re in a Laboratory now,” he declared, snooty in his tone. He seized the Rathor’s wrist and guided his hand around in circles. “You don’t want to stab the mortar… The mortar is your friend, and the pestle is blunt…”
Arkash’s brow flattened, and he looked upon the Veir with obvious disdain in his features. How could one man be so good at aggravating him? Promptly, he pulled his wrist away from the man, and turned his back while he continued to grind the paste. “I’m not an idiot,” Arkash spoke with a curl of his nose. Though he knew that the mage was smiling at the back of his head, he tried not to think about it. Part of him thought it a petty excuse to withhold his anger, but he didn’t want Raphael to know he could affect him so badly.
Even so, he took on board the direction, and ground the paste into the mortar with the Master’s input. He’d be a fool to ignore the advice, even if he wanted to dismiss the mage out of spite.
“Your temper will be the death of you, you know,” Raphael warned, a smile in his tone. “Daravin isn’t the sort of empire where you want to go about with your heart on your sleeve, Rath. You’d do well to keep it in your chest,” the Noble explained with a cruel twist to his tone. “But that’s easier said than done for those that deal in death, isn’t it?”
Arkash rolled his eyes, then set the Mortar aside with the pestle standing up in the bowl. “What’s next?” He asked, dismissing the Noble’s speech with a turn of his head.
The Veir was quiet for a moment, and Arkash reveled in the angry silence that preceded the brief, amused scoff that came from the Veir’s lips. He thought for a moment, while Arkash watched him, then directed his gaze to the unconscious soldier on the operating table. “Next, we’re going to apply the Sinew foam. Go ahead and scrape all of that mess into the Sinew Gun, and I’ll show you how to use it.”
From memory, Arkash unlocked the back of the weapon, then poured the contents of the Mortar into the back. Keeping hold of both the gun and the grinding utensil was awkward in his claws, and Raphael seemed to notice.
“Careful… If you get any of the foam on you, it’ll attach to your body and set there.”
The rath furrowed his brow. Wasn’t that great to think about when he was trying to focus? Accidentally adding unwanted flesh to his hands? Sinew foam was reactive with the first biological matter to touch it, in that it transformed into the exact same material from the outside in. It was useful for many applications, but more complex wounds were beyond the use of Sinew Foam.
As the Rath lined himself up with the unconscious Soldier’s wound, Raphael parted his lips to speak again. “…Why do you deal in death, little Rath?” Back on the subject Arkash had dismissed.
“How hard do I squeeze?” He spoke with a gesture to the gun, finger on the trigger. His eyes locked gazes with Raphael while the man sorted through his anger to find an answer to the question.
After a moment, he nodded with a hard-pressed jaw. “Gently at first, then press harder as you see fit. Just use your judgment,” partway through his annoyed tone, he changed to a more factual, instructive stance. “The goal is to completely fill every gap in the wound, you don’t want to miss anything, understand?”
Arkash nodded a little, it made sense. Once he’d gently eased the nozzle of the gun against the wound, a jagged, torn crevice in the skin, he gently squeezed the trigger to dispense the sinew foam in its deepest part. He made sure to completely squeeze the material into the wound, which took on the makeup of muscle and various layers of skin and fat as it gradually filled the wound, and spilled over.
“Don’t worry about using too much,” the Veir spoke on cue, “if anything, it’s better to use too much than too little; we can always turn it back into Sinew Foam once we carve it.”
Such was reassuring to the Rath, wasting was something he was conditioned to avoid. His brow furrowed suspiciously at the thought. Raphael knew he was raised in squalor, and that something like waste would bother him. Why did he take the time to try and ease his worries? The Veir was anything but caring or perceptive… Unless he wanted something.
With a sigh, Arkash finished off filling in the wound, then set the gun on the table before he leaned into the surface and thought for a moment. With a degree of intrigue in his tone, Raphael asked “what is it?”
“What do you want?” Arkash returned, direct and confrontational. His head body lifted from the lean on the table, and he turned to face the human fully. “All these questions, now you’re being considerate when you’re usually a jerk.” He’d wanted to use harsher words to address the man, for that was truly what he thought of Raphael, but he stayed his tongue out of guilt. Why? The man had imprisoned him and blackmailed him into service. He owed Raphael no care or consideration.
But that was the point of the Necromancer’s kindness, to weaken his walls and lower his guard, to get the Rathor to lay down his arms. The Veir grinned beneath his mask, then parted his lips to speak. “I don’t know what you mean?”
“I’m not playing your Candor bullshit!” Arkash declared with clenched fists, stern and unyielding in his resolve. “I don’t care what you say or how you treat me, I’m NOT trusting you, EVER!” By the end of his rant, his teeth were bared and his posture was leaned forward to stare down the human.
Raphael didn’t flinch, he simply stood with his hands behind his back, grinning at the Rathor. “But you are- Playing the Candor, I mean,” the other man affirmed with utter confidence.
“…How?” Arkash quizzed in turn. It wasn’t all that unbelievable that the man had somehow managed to gather some information from him, just in the few sentences he’d spoken; the Entente were ruthless in their analysis, ever-observant of the people around them, constantly reading mannerisms, tone, eye contact. Was it really any wonder he’d been discovered in the first place?
A brief chuckle left the Veir’s lips while he pondered. Should he tell the Rath what he’d learned? “Well, I can tell you’re hiding something. Why else would you be so angry over a little prodding…? You might just be paranoid.” He began to pace slowly, methodically with his hands behind him, continuing his explanation. “It goes without saying that you don’t trust me, you already know I’m trying to pick you apart, figure out what’s going on in that head of yours. Your disposition is set against me before we’ve even begun… Not that I didn’t expect that, you do have a history with Nobility, after all…” Raphael sighed finally. “I still can’t tell if you mean to betray me, or to kill my blackmail and end me before I can receive your mark… But the more I speak with you, the more I begin to suspect…”
The Rathor fell into silence at that, wide eyes peering at the noble from where he stood at the operating table. Raphael met his gaze once, grinned his teeth, then shook his head with a slight dip. His silence was all the Veir needed in confirmation.
“You look surprised, Lizard,” he started, and shook his head. “Don’t be; I’m just messing with you,” he assured, and Arkash breathed a sigh of relief. “A little joke of ours who partake in the Candor, assume the worst with vague little tells…” With that, Raphael brought his arm to hold the Rath’s shoulder and placed the carving sickle in his other hand before closing the Rathor’s fingers around it. “Shall we continue?”
