74th of Ash, 120
One foot at a time, Arkash ascended the sheer mountainside. Through a heavy quilt of snow, he pressed and waded in an effort to grip something of substance beneath for traction. More than once, he slipped and fell to his hand claws, which only added to his struggle. Steadily, his body grew tight and weary; he was losing the heat he’d gathered prior to the trip. Despite that, Arkash knew that he would perish if he spent too long climbing.
The frantic, rushed way in which he climbed led to more than his fair share of trips, slips, and falls, but it kept his muscles warm and lax, too. He had yet to lose his faculties in the snow, which was a good sign that was not becoming hypothermic. He tried all manners of tactics to keep his focus, including counting from one to ten and back, reciting the vithmi alphabet, and running through the steps in his plan to kill Malafor, but it was ultimately all in vain. The warmth he wasted speaking had cost him, and he wound up wandering thoughtlessly through the mountainside.
Malafor; a terrible human that thrived on the fear and terror of others. He was just that in his prime: A terrorist, revered across half of Lorien for the brutal and horrific ways that he’d splay his victims all across streets and the exteriors of homes, only for the glee and infamy alone. Now, he’d fallen from grace, and wound up a crippled old man, alone in a cave near the summit of an unnamed mountain. In his dying days, he sought someone to exact vengeance for him, and Arkash had been that someone. For his efforts, Arkash was to be rewarded with power untold, and with that power, Arkash was going to kill Malafor.
It was the right thing to do, Arkash knew it was. A man like him deserved nothing but a most painful death, just as his ex-accomplice did.
Arkash had been following the trail Malafor left him, and on his journey, he found reason and purpose to see through his hatred. He recognized the wrongs he’d done and the poison in his heart, and he promised someone that he’d do better, that he’d turn away from his life of crime and make something better of himself. He meant it, too. That same man had given Arkash his life back with his arm and eye both - he was whole again, devoid of scars; the story of hardship that littered his scales. In time, he believed he could re-write that story, take fate into his own claws, and make life worth living.
A sudden jolt snatched him from his cold-induced trance, and he lifted his head among the howling winds and blistering frosts. Chitters was there; a lanky, dirty, worn-down human. It was the same one that had guided him to Malafor in the first place, the same one that had given Arkash a plethora of tasks and jobs by order of Malafor alone. Did Chitters know the dark lord he served? It seemed so from past experiences. In turn, Chitters would have to die too.
”This weh, Assassin,” he spoke with something of a grin, and guided Arkash by the wrist. Once again, his consciousness receded, and he marched on in compliance with the human. When next he regained his senses, he was in the same cave in which he met Malafor the first time, and sat beside a fire. He looked around as the warmth thawed his body, and spied Chitters near the proceeding tunnel. “C’mon, ye best hurry if ye want’ye prize,” the human spoke knowingly with a grin.
Arkash glared from the ground, and shakily pushed to his feet. He wasn’t fully thawed, but it would have to do. “Vogen's dead,” Arkash declared as he forced his tightened, stiff legs to move. “My part’a th’ deal’s doen.”
Chitters laughed a breath and clapped his dirty, bruised hands once. “Masta’ alredy knows! He’s most pleased with ye, Ser!” Arkash wasn’t sure if such news comforted him. “Many have tried to earn my sovereign’s favor, all have failed. Yer quite special, Ser,” The human spoke again, then turned to guide the half-frozen rathari through the caves.
The moment the human turned around, Arkash leaned into one of the walls to catch his breath. His heart wasn’t beating properly, and circulation to his brain had slowed as a result of the cold. He needed to warm up, but it wasn’t an immediate issue. He wouldn’t get much colder in the cave, he believed. So, he followed the ratty man into the depths of the stone chamber and came to rest in that room filled with a sickly smell. Malafor was there, and Arkash could almost hear his breathing. While chitters lit the candles in the corner of the room, Malafor rose from his throne of stone and descended the steps to look Arkash over.
“[color=ce0829]Your eye’s back,[/color]” he spoke with a glare and looked down Arkash’s form while he hovered just a foot or two from the rath. “[color=ce0829]Your arm, too,[/color]” he spoke with no amount of relent; it was an accusation.
”A maeg ‘elped me,” he spoke the truth. “Sum sucka’ from th’ rebellion,” he explained. All the while, he watched the man’s gaunt features with caution. Did that change things?
A smile spread across Malafor’s lips to bare his yellowed, rotting teeth. “[color=ce0829]Even better...[/color]” he spoke under his breath. Evidently, it only improved his standing with Malafor, though he knew not why. “[color=ce0829]I won’t lie, I had my doubts on taking on a cripple. Now that you’re all back together, you’re a lot stronger, right?[/color]”
Taking on? “Whatchya mean?” Arkash asked with something of a squint. Meanwhile, Chitters had finished with the candles and waited somewhere off at the side.
“[color=ce0829]Your reward,[/color]” he clarified, “[color=ce0829]isn’t something you can pick up on the fly. You need guidance, nurturing. I'll be the one to teach you, and you will carry on my work.[/color]”
That didn’t work out well for Arkash, but he didn’t have the strength to fight Malafor while so low on warmth. He’d find some other way to hone whatever power Malafor gave him, but he wasn’t going to study under the man. He’d made a promise to meet Taelian in two days: he didn’t have the time nor the desire to work under a maniac for who knew how long. “Orite,” Arkash spoke in agreement, a lie. “What I gotta do?”
“[color=ce0829]Hold still,[/color]” he warned, “[color=ce0829]I need to partially scalp you.... -You’ll thank me later,[/color]” he assured.
What? Oh, no no. That wasn’t happening. Arkash took a step back to put his body side-on from malafor; it was a defensive, threatening stance. “Why?” Arkash asked on guard, then lifted his claw to take hold of his dagger. Who in their right mind would let someone else cut them open? Let alone without reason?!
“[color=ce0829]Just trust me,[/color]” malafor spoke with something of a gleeful smile. It felt just as threatening as Arkash’s stance, if not more. It was as though he wanted the rath to struggle, to fear and despair.
”Uhh, fack off?” Arkash laughed a breath and drew his knife with all the dexterity and speed of a clogged creek. The moment he did, however, an unseen force took his right arm and threw him over a smooth, carved stone table in the corner of the room. Chitters, and a third human, whom Arkash hadn’t spotted, approached while Malafor’s eyes glowed an amethyst hue. Mentalism. Malafor was a mage, like Cyrus. As Chitters and his double grabbed Arkash’s arms and held him down, The rath strained his weakened, frigid muscles to struggle, but every little movement left him exhausted. “GER TH’ FACK OFF ME!” he roared and pulled with all his might. Even if he had been warm, however, he wouldn’t have been strong enough to fight off two humans.
The sound of Malafor’s boots on stone echoed while Arkash gathered his breath and tried to regain his strength, but it was all futile. “[color=ce0829]Easy now; you’ve had worse, [/color]” the old man assured the rath with an audible smile. Arkash breathed heavily and tensed his claws. His dagger was gone, dropped in the confusion. He could still rend skin with his claws. After a deep breath, he pulled hard on his arms, only to pause as a hefty weight fell upon his neck and pressed the right side of his head into the stone table.
A lesson he’d learned in the frozen wilds with Taelian resurfaced: he was powerless, regardless of how strong he’d gotten. “Please…” he pleaded through a burn in his throat, on the verge of tears. “Sop…!” He tensed as an unseen blade pressed into the scales on the back of his head. He could hear the metal gliding across the bone in his skull, the searing, blinding pain of being cut open flashed through his whole being, and resurfaced memories of being held down and carved in Lower Nivenhain’s alleys. Nothing had changed, he was still a victim. Quick, hiss-laced breaths left him in waves as the second cut came. Though his eyes filled with tears and a terrible headache wracked his mind, he didn’t cry. “Stop…” he ordered through his chattering teeth with a low growl. No such reprieve came, and the third incision was made to form a door-like panel in his scales that peeled back to reveal his skull.
His own clammy lifeforce ran in trails down his neck and curled around his collarbone to drip on the table. Tears ran from his right eye, though he couldn’t see through it while he was held down. He could feel his scales peeling away, the empty space in the back of his head, which burned and stung in the cool air.
There, on the exposed, bloody patch of bone, Malafor began to draw the rune of Blood Magic. “[color=ce0829]Almost done...[/color]” he spoke slowly, a heavy veil of concentration to his voice while he navigated the curtain of red that otherwise concealed his work. The moment his work was complete, he closed the panel of flesh and quickly sewed it closed with his grafting needle, and the wound was forever obscured. “[color=ce0829]There,[/color]” spoke the withered man, “[color=ce0829]just survive these next few lashes, and you're golden.[/color]”
All of a sudden, the three withdrew, and left Arkash on the table. Weak, the rath lifted his form with a press of his claws, held the back of his head, then blinked in shock.The wound was gone; Malafor was also a necromancer, in addition to a mentalist.
While he held his head, he looked to the third human to join the fray. The man looked almost identical to chitters in every way, save for the assortment of dirt and grime that caked him and his attire. Was he somehow related to Chitters?
A palpitation in his chest brought him to wince and squeeze his pectoral with his claws. Everything in his body felt sluggish, as though there were clumps of ice in his veins. His extremities grew numb, and he shook as he grew short of breath once more.
"What…?" Was all he managed before his scales split down the length of his nose in an open, weeping wound. A cry of pain escaped his lips, and he reached up to squeeze his muzzle as another wound ripped his forearm open. There was no force behind the cuts at all, it was as if his scales had become paper-thin, and broke apart with ease. Arkash hissed through a pained glare and settled his eyes on Malafor. "'Ew… tricked me…" He hissed as a wound cut into his chest. Slashes and incisions tore up the basalt scales all over his body while his lifeforce trickled down his form.
The withered man grinned from ear to ear as he shook his head, though Arkash only caught the tail end of the gesture as his knees hit the floor. The slashing and carving stopped, but the bleeding continued. Though his heart beat hard in his chest, the flow of red from his gashes was comparatively slow due to the cold in his body. His claws weakly gripped the table while his body tried to steady itself. White-hot pain burned in his icy scales, so much so that he could do little but process the agony in his ruined body.
That was until his strength gave out, and he hit the floor with a thud. In moments, the world faded to black, and Arkash succumbed to his exhaustion and pain.
Image source.
