Potential
Posted: Sun Nov 15, 2020 5:24 am
74th of Ash, 120
There Arkash knelt on the cold stone floor of the cave. His breathing labored, and his eyes weary, he rested in the dim glow of the moonlight and held his aching crown. After a series of strikes to the head, he'd successfully performed his first act of magic at the cost of a lot of blood. Before him, across the carved stone room, was a hardened miss-shaped ball made entirely of his blood. Malafor, the man that had initiated him in blood magic, observed Arkash's work from a distance, then bowed his head as he quietly excused himself.
A whistling draft blew through the cave and brought Arkash to shiver. He was close to the fire they'd fashioned him, but he was also right below the night sky, as a large gaping hole opened and led to the surface of the mountain above him. The cold was only worsened in intensity due to Arkash's blood loss. A pained groan escaped his lips while his bones rattled in his frozen scales, only to startle as he was suddenly covered around his shoulders. The chain attached to his neck rattled as he looked up to find Chitters, the ratty raggedy man, wrapping Arkash with a blanket.
"Ye did well, assassin," spoke the human as he knelt before Arkash, and drew Arkash's arm into his hold, "Masta' likes ye, I can tell."
At once, Arkash snatched his arm from the scuffed human, and hissed in irritation. It was the same arm that Arkash was made to open his wrist with, and though he knew Chitters was only making sure the wound had been properly closed, he didn't like being examined or prodded. "Fack off," Arkash hissed. "Fackin'... Two-faeced nob'ead." Chitters had betrayed Arkash in his eyes. The lizard had made the mistake of trusting the human to some degree, only to be held down while Malafor cut him open. Chitters surely knew he'd done Arkash wrong, for his eyes reflected recognition and regret.
"It was fer yer own good, Assas-."
"-I have a naem... 'ew stupid cun'," Arkash interrupted in the haze of pain that became his world.
"Arkash," another voice spoke then. It wasn't that of the old man, nor Chitters, but similar in dialect. Arkash looked up from his wallowing to spy the other raggedy man, the one that had helped Chitters hold him down. "Me brother's right," he started. Arkash remained quiet out of confusion; the two men looked almost identical, but then humans all looked alike to him anyway. "The mark ye've got on yer 'ead is hated and feared. If someone discovers that yer a Vandikar, yee'll be hunted and killed. That's why Master opened up yer scalp; he drew the mark on yer skull. Now, no one will know."
Arkash stared while he breathed in an effort to catch his breath, but it was difficult with his blood so thin. That man, Chitters, and Malafor had done him a favor in that respect, Arkash supposed. But that didn't change the fact that Malafor had beaten him. "Who are 'ew?" Arkash asked the new familiar face.
"Chitters," both men spoke in tandem. Arkash squinted and looked between the two. "That's the name Master gave us when we came into his service. Two names were a hassle, so... We're Chitters," Elaborated the man that kneeled beside him while the standing human nodded in affirmation.
"Rite..." Arkash shut his eyes fully, then buried his head in his claws. He didn't have the energy nor focus to learn their history, nor did he really care. They were still his enemies, in his eyes. "Whatchya want?"
"Oh! Master said we can give 'im food if 'e can re-shape the blood," declared the human that stood as he turned to his brother.
Reshape the blood? Did he mean that little ball of hardened life force? "Most generous of 'im, yea," declared the other Chitters, who rested beside Arkash. Meanwhile, Arkash was caught looking between them for identifiers on their appearance, something that would allow him to tell them apart easier. There wasn't much to go off, aside from a more severe bend in the left's nose. He, Arkash would call Chitters one, and the other would be named Chitters two, at least until he discovered their true names... If he discovered their true names. There was always a chance he wouldn't come to know them before he killed them.
"You's feedin' me now?" Arkash scoffed through a glare, then hissed as he exhaled. Every sound brought his head to pound, but the effect was amplified by his own voice. "Piss off, I'm not doing youer stupid tricks... jus' t' eat." He needed the food, it was the only way he'd be able to regain his strength, but Arkash had grown a backbone in the past season. With it came a sense of pride.
"That's a bad idea, Arkash," spoke Chitters two. "Yer dizzy with blood loss. Ye best get on with it and recover yer stren'th."
Arkash exhaled roughly and squeezed at his temples. His head still hurt from the last attempt. Would he even be able to change the shape of the ball? Either way, the ratty man was right. Arkash needed the nutrients. With his eyes narrowed to squint, Arkash extended one set of claws to the ball and focused his strength on the blood that composed it. His vision wavered and the room span as he strained his weak body further. Steadily, the rath poured his ether into the construct and willed it to change. First, it formed a complete, almost perfect sphere, and the sound of clapping echoed beside him. Arkash was not swayed in his focus as he squeezed his claws into a fist, and pulled at the edges of the blood.
Steadily, the corners creased and folded over one another to form a sort-of cube. By the time he was done, his hand wavered and shook beneath the strain of his weakened form, and his arm dropped to catch and support his weight. The pressure in his head hadn't built much at all, which was a sign that the exhaustion was likely just due to his blood loss. "Wota'..." he pleaded through the dryness in his mouth.
At that, Chitters one offered Arkash the jug, then tipped it back as Arkash tilted his head up. He didn't stop to breathe as he guzzled the refreshing, hydrating waters, then exhaled and breathed deeply when he'd drank his fill. More than anything, he needed fluids, he believed. As promised, he was later presented with a loaf of hard-crusted bread, which Arkash began to tear into with his serrated teeth.
Finally, he came to rest there on the floor with a half-full stomach and caught his breath while he squinted through his weary eyes at his good work. He'd made an almost-perfect cube entirely of blood. If it weren't for his high blood pressure and pounding head, he would have been proud of himself. With a sigh, he reached out to collect the cube, and the collar on his neck tightened. The chain that attached him to the wall tensed, but he could almost reach the cube. His claws flicked at the structure in an effort to reach until Chitters Two gently nudged the cube toward him. Finally, he collected the small box and pulled it toward himself.
The sound of grinding metal on stone echoed as he dragged the shaped lifeforce toward him. It was surprisingly lightweight, as the blood had hardened, but retained its usual mass. In his weakened state, he had to use both hands to collect it before he sat back enough to ease the strangling tightness around his throat. Already, the water he'd drank was beginning to have an effect as it eased the pressure in his head. Arkash wasn't feeling quite as shitty by the time he fumbled the cube into his lap. Despite being made of blood, there was no wetness to the cube. it didn't stain or rub off on his scales, but its scent was still heavily reminiscent of copper and nutrients.
It was a strange thing, the ability to create something from what would have been his wasted, spilled blood. Could he make anything out of it? He couldn't help but imagine forging knives made entirely of blood mid-battle. But how much blood could he spare before he succumbed to his weakness?
"Yer a natural," commented Chitter Two while he looked over the kneeling rath. "Master'll be pleased, I'm sure." With that, he took his leave. Chitters One collected the discarded knife and began to walk away. Right before he disappeared down the hallway, he flashed Arkash a smile.
Again, the rathor was left to his devices. he squinted at the doorway before he pressed along the ground and crawled back toward the fire. There, he warmed his cold body and looked up to the night sky through the crevice in the ceiling. There, the moon shined upon him and glistened on the rusted metal that locked his neck to the wall. "Alright..." Arkash spoke in vithmi while he stared, then returned his attention to the cube. One set of claws reached up to the collar around his neck and pressed and prodded in search of the keyhole. If he could fashion anything with blood, why not a key?
When he found it, he pushed against it with his claws and sighed. His attention and claws alike returned to the surface of his cube. He could use a portion of it to make a key, then form a weapon with the rest. Malafor's death was closer than he thought.
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