3rd of Ash, 4621
It hurt. The bindings that ensnared his wrists chafed and squeezed uncomfortably tight. It wasn't the first time he'd been bound and left to the dark with naught but his own imagination to keep his thoughts occupied, but it was the longest that his humanoid form had undergone such treatment. His skin wasn't nearly as durable as his scales; the damage would reflect on his true form, he was sure.
Were his wrists the only thing that worried him about the situation? No. He worried for Sheki, too. She was all alone out there, and if he wasn't to feed her, how would she stay hidden? Arkash appeared mostly human, and the people of Daravin still bagged and dragged him. If anyone found Sheki, she'd be killed on the spot or worse, he imagined. It wasn't as if she was easy to hide, given how tall she was, either.
Was he not worried for his own safety as the captive of the esteemed Lord Raphael, or whatever that pompous prick had heralded himself as? A little. He'd submit himself to a Necromancer's knife before, and just like the last, he had something to gain from the procedure. Sure, for the time being, his face was entombed in bandages and he was told not to open his eyes for the past... However long it had been since he was put under, but he knew he was at least safe. The entire reason the lord had agreed to remake his face was because of his suspected wealth, to which he had yet to reveal the location.
Why did he want to remake his humanoid form's face? The face of young Derek Egon? A few reasons, but the most pressing of which was to hide from his progenitor and caretaker both. Asmodei and Fayeth were nothing if not persistent in keeping him on the straight and narrow, and they didn't agree with the course of action he'd taken. So, he hid from them. His heart sank, then. What if they were the ones to find Sheki? Anxiety squeezed the empty space in his chest with a strangling grip and turned his stomach in knots. Perhaps it was for the best if the Daravinic people found her first if that was the case? He dared not imagine what Fayeth and Asmodei would do to her to uncover his location, what they would do to her if she said she didn't know where he was.
He had to get out of there, he had to return to Sheki. "Hello?" he called into the dark, blinded and muffled by the bandages. A hard cough quickly took his throat as if to remind him that he shouldn't strain his voice when he'd had so little to drink.
The rath perked as he heard distant footsteps, and the warm beating hearts that accompanied said footsteps down the hall from where he was. He didn't yet recognize the lord by the sound of his footfalls but carried the notion that he one day might. Despite the soreness, he tested his bindings once more; they were no looser than they had been when he was first tied to the chair some hours ago.
When the door opened, and a group of beating hearts entered the room, Arkash sat up and focused on the layout of his surroundings with his keen dranoch senses. He took every sound and movement to help him imagine where he might have been, at least until the lord's voice warned him to "keep your eyes closed." Thrown from his train of thought, the rathor shut his eyes even tighter. His skin and muscles weren't sore anymore; it didn't hurt to shut them so tight. "Do you understand, foreigner? Keep your eyes closed, else they might fall out." The noble's voice warned once more.
Arkash swallowed hard, but found little spit in his dry mouth. It was times like these that he missed his true form's excellent water retention. A nod follows the noble's question; he understood.
"Good," the noble declared, and the mental image of the man nodding came to the rath's mind. After a pause and some non-descript steps about the room, the man spoke again. "Check his healing; if the skin is still inflamed let me know." With that, the other two heartbeats in the room took steps of their own and approached the bound patient. Arkash curled his nose a little, for he could smell them through the bandages. They hadn't washed in some time, it seemed.
As they were directed, they began to unwrap the layers of cotton that bound Arkash's new face together. Fresh air met the skin of his cheeks for the first time in what felt like days, and the two paused in their task. The bandages were left unwrapped, and those beating hearts stood before him, still in their position. Was it that bad, he wondered? He had worried somewhat about what his new face might look like, but not excessively. After all, it was only his part-time face. "Master..." one of the two before him spoke. Arkash furrowed his brow. The lord was their master? Were they slaves?
"What is it, worm?" the nobleman called from somewhere else in the room, near a window, it sounded like.
"The foreigner's skin... it's..." That same slave continued
"It's what? Out with it, I don't have all day." The lord spoke up, impatience rampant in his tone.
"It's set, my Veir," the other finished in his fellow slave's stead. "His skin is set and fully healed..."
There was a pause, the sound of a book closing nearby the noble. "....You're wrong," the noble declared, then walked toward the rath once more. The sound of his footsteps on the laid rug caught Arkash's keen senses once more, as well as the sound of his approaching heartbeat. "That's ridiculous; it's only been thirty-" he paused mid-sentence when he looked upon the 'guised rathor's face. A long silence followed, and the two slaves stepped aside to make way for the noble. Arkash couldn't help but flinch as the man all-too-quickly cleared the empty space between them and swept his hand for the rathor's chin. With ease, the noble took hold of his face, then crudely pushed his chin to the side to turn his head to the left, then to the right. He was being examined, evaluated. He was pinched, poked, squeezed, and scratched as the necrodoctor inspected his work, dumbfounded. "...Must be the flesh I used in the sinew foam," the man justified the occurrence aloud.
Arkash could feel the slaves look at one another in doubt. He knew why he was so quick to heal, of course. Even as a botchling, his body's natural ability to recover from wounds was greater than the average mortal. Of course, he couldn't let that knowledge slip; he'd be in big trouble if he was discovered as a Dranoch by a noble in a far-off city, so he kept his smile on the inside. "...Is it bad?" Arkash asked voice strained by the dryness in his throat.
The noble shook his head; the rustle of fabric relayed as much to him. "No, it's actually some of my better works. Let's see if your new eyes hold their place," he declared, then tilted Arkash's head all the way back. "Open your eyes and keep them open until I say," he ordered. Arkash did just that. Gravity was keeping his eyes in the back of his skull, right? They wouldn't just fall out as they were. For the first time in a while, he saw a bright, over-saturated wooden ceiling. The woodwork, a deeper shade of brown, was glossy and polished, no doubt incredibly expensive. His gaze was made to move as the noble began to tilt his head forward, and gradually lowered the rathor's face until it was level with his captor.
The noble was a pale man, a little older than Arkash, closer to his thirties he had to guess. His hair was short and wiry beneath his puffed-up cap, which perfectly matched the rest of his attire. "...Can you see?" The noble asked. Arkash nodded carefully, fearful that he might knock his eyes out of place. His head was then made to tilt down to his bound form, his chin touching his collarbone while gravity worked against his eyes. "Blink," the noble ordered again, then bent his knees to watch the rathor do so. Arkash obeyed and shut his eyes tight before he quickly opened them, and blinked quickly to adjust. "...Perfect," the noble declared, then let the rathor's head go free.
At once, Arkash lifted his head, blinked, then stretched out his jaw and face muscles. He felt stiff, weak in the area. Did he even have the strength to smile? As he adjusted to the shape of his features, the slave to his right presented him with a mirror. Arkash first looked over the lithe man, adorned in tattered rags and marked with dirt and grime from head to toe. He was younger than Arkash, barely old enough to grow chin hairs. Arkash's gaze lingered on the slave for a moment or two before he looked down and beheld his new face. It was a shock at first; he looked nothing like Derek Egon, except for the pigment of his skin and curly hair alike. Perhaps he should style it? It didn't really go with his new features.
The rathor blinked. What did he care about how he looked? He was nameless, regardless of the fortune he carried. Such things weren't meant for him. "Are you satisfied?" The noble asked as he returned from the desk across the lavish room with a scroll of paper in hand. Arkash nodded. "Good, now where is it?" he asked and unrolled the map in his hands.
The man meant to trade Arkash's makeover for the location of his belongings. After all, he was thought to be a noble from Lorien by the way he arrived in Valtoria, dressed in such nice clothes. No doubt, he had some sort of fortune with him? Arkash had agreed to give up his belongings if the necrodoctor remade his face, and the noble agreed. Once his hands were untied, he inspected the map, made out the landmarks he recognized on paper, then pointed to the dilapidated home in which he'd stored his gear and money alike. Once free, he rubbed at his sore wrists and inspected the bruising made by the cuffs, only to be placed back in them.
"Fetch him something to drink. Untie him when I give the word," the Veir ordered, then turned to face the rath fully, and bent his knees to make himself eye-level with the wrath. "You'd better not be lying to me, slave," he warned with obvious venom on his tongue.
Arkash sighed. There was that word again; the noble intended to force him into servitude. Little did their Veir know, such an arrangement partially worked for the disguised lizard. Little did Arkash know that the lesser noble had more cards up his sleeve than the rath was ready for. With a feigned sigh of defeat, the rathor replied "...No, Master."
