Appealing to the symptom
Posted: Sat Feb 06, 2021 8:55 am
35th of Frost, 120
It was his fifth day in Astoria. The botchling was by no means in good shape proceeding all the events of the days before, but he had the strength to continue. The hunger; the vast emptiness that coursed through his very bones spurred him on while it debilitated him. It promised his wellbeing once it was filled, though he knew the chasm within could never be so. Still, it offered some comfort to fill. And though he longed to gorge himself on the masses; to let loose, kill, and eat dozens a day, Fayeth had taught him self-control; a force of will.
That night, it would truly be tested. His strength of will would be needed more than ever before, for he was addressing the masses. A horde of meat waited just a couple of rooms away, and though he was famished, he had to resist the urge to feed. Luckily, he had a little trick that would help subdue his urges.
In the dark of the back rooms of the abandoned warehouse, Arkash sat upon the lap of his progenitor with his club-like tail draped over the other end of her thigh. Her free arm rested around his smaller frame while the elf held her pale wrist above his scaled muzzle. Her skin was open there, and the darkened bile of her veins dripped into his open maw. His claws held her arm with tension while she fed him the comfort elixir that was her life-force.
It was the only thing that helped put him at ease. No amount of feeding or gorging could sate him long, but a dose of her blood set him right for hours. He felt stronger, firmer, whole again, as he had been before. The thrum in his head and the burn in his nostrils were all so distant in her embrace; the sensation that accompanied the delightful tang and alluring scent of her blood always put him right.
Asmodei, the Velsign who'd trained and mentored him to become the killer he was that day, remained with the gathered mob. It was as she insisted, as she kept such interactions from him.
Though he wondered if he was perhaps too intimate with Fayeth, the relief of her blood pushed away any ideas of refusing such treatment.
When at last he'd drank his fill, he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder and dragged his forked, darkened tongue over his lips to capture whatever had spilled. To his delight, he found a bounty of her blood, which he quickly pulled into his palette and swallowed with haste. The scent remained in his nostrils and helped block all the foreign, unwanted scents from his perception. Finally, he sighed while he laid against her, and spoke a quiet "thank 'ew."
The cardinal smiled, and ran her hand down the back of his scaled head while he idly breathed in her hold. "You," she corrected. "You're going to have to start speaking properly if you plan on making these speeches so frequently, Arkash," she scolded with a lighthearted tone. She was happy, and for once, so was he.
"Yeah, ew's-" he caught himself and paused, "-yew's right," he corrected.
The dranoch chuckled a breath and shook her head before she wrapped both her arms around him and rested her chin upon his scalp. "We'll work on it," she chimed while she cradled him. With a sharp exhale, she rubbed his arm and peeled away from the hug. "Come on, we shouldn't keep them waiting much longer. Are you well?"
The rath shut his eyes and focused. Beyond, he could hear their beating hearts in the crowd, all quick and angry, but he didn't find it all too alluring or distracting. Her blood had satisfied him yet again. With a brief nod, he clambered from her lap and brushed off his clothes, then double-checked his muzzle for any blood that might have evaded his initial sweep. Once he was sure he was presentable, he looked to Fayeth, who tightened the bandage on her wrist with a firm knot and squeezed her hand into a fist. No doubt it would heal quickly, but she knew the open wound would distract her progeny.
The distant roars of anger and spite became louder and louder as both the dranoch made their way to the agreed meeting area. They'd only had a couple of days to spread the word of the meeting locale, but it seemed as though a lot of people were aching to take action against the oppressive Celebrant and the Argent both. After the Knighthood had loosed the hollows on its own citizens, who could blame them?
It felt as though everything was falling into place for once, that Arkash's goals were realized and all the forces of Atharen were siding with him. His cause was right, just. Others would realize so in time.
His night eyes, clouded with mist, narrowed to squint as he entered the lit warehouse. The round pupils he peered from narrowed as he looked upon those gathered, and found not just a few dozen people, but hundreds. There were more there than he could ever hope to count or know, but that wasn't the point of meeting them. There were, of course, the familiar faces of Nivenhain's surviving nameless peppered among the warm, pulsing bodies that were mere words from a riot.
As he had in Nivenhain, Arkash directed his attention to the soapbox that had been set before them; beside where Asmodei, the towering, armored Velsign stood. Through a gap in his lips, he breathed, as to spare his nose from the various scents of the gathered, sweaty humans. A push of his claws willed his led-like legs to move forward, and he put himself before the crowd to stand upon the box.
The blood that quickly coursed through his frame ran cold when he turned to face the crowd, he'd never seen so many eyes look back at him. Despite all their anger and rage, they set their focus on him, the Velsign, and the Sil'Norai at his side. His jaw was tense and his mouth steadily filled with venom while his yellow eyes darted over those gathered. Fayeth's hand came to rest on his shoulder then, and she leaned in to whisper "they can't hurt you." Steadily, the tension in his chest softened, and he looked to her without moving his head. A gentle nod saw him take a deep breath before he returned his gaze to the masses as they quieted down a touch. They were waiting for him to speak, and he delivered.
The rath drew a deep breath that lifted his chest a little, straightened his back, then let his voice carry him. "YEW'A ALL 'ERE T'NITE FAW ONE REASON!" he called with a skyward pump of his fist. Again, his own stored rage bled into his voice, and it lit the flames of an uproar in the gathered. "YEW'S SEEN FIRST'AND WHAT 'OUSE F'ORENT'S TRUE COLU'S ARE, AN' EW'S NOT GONNA TAEK I'!" The energy the crowd returned was infectious. Despite the creep of the pain and weakness in the background of his thoughts, they sparked adrenaline in him that kept him going.
Their overwhelming roars of affirmation hurt despite his fix of fayeth's blood, but he still stood firm in the pain. Before them, he took a moment to breathe and calmed himself while the crowd quieted. "I'm not yew'a leada'." He projected his voice with his diaphragm to meet the ears of all he could. "Yew Leada's an' 'ey dogs 'ave let 'ew down, People o'Lorien." The rathor lowered his fist and shook his head. "No, I'm 'ere as 'ew equal. I was born 'ere, grown an' lived 'ere my 'ole lyfe; jus' like 'ew." He offered the claws of his right hand. There was so much he could do, so much he wanted to say to scold the Savant and the Lustrians there, but he held his tongue.
"An' like 'ew, I've lost my fam'ly an' frien's to th' pigs!" He called with an aggressive bark. No one voice stood out in the crowd as they bellowed and yelled over one another, but he took every quiet moment he could to get his words in. "You dun' need t' follow me," he called at last. "But those 'who do; I promise JUSTICE!" Again, he threw his fist in the air, and a lot of the gathered mirrored him with their roars. "NO ONE ELSE IS GONNA FITE FOR 'EW! EW'VE GOTTA SHAEP UP AN' GET YEW'A'S!" he bellowed as the crowd's roaring picked up, and he bared his teeth with a curl of his nose.
"COME WIV' ME, AN WE'LL SHOW 'OUSE FLORENT WOT I'SS LIEK T' GRIEVE!!" He roared as several bodies broke away from the horde and left the building altogether. He saw them with their human eye. Spies? Weaklings? He didn't care. They'd held the meeting in a second location to rally sympathetic souls. Their true hideout was hidden from the rest.
The rest of the night was spent sorting through and speaking with the sympathizers on an individual basis, and Arkash organized the skilled and willing for a specific mission necessary in his plan. It was easy to see, despite his distraction and fixation on the blood that rushed through their necks, that they weren't wholly loyal to him. It was a temporary alliance; they wanted revenge, and he wanted celebrant grief. For the time being, what they had was good enough.
