80th of Frost, 4621
Hazy was the best way to describe how he’d felt when he first entered the Badlands, and hazy was how he felt the last time, too. His most recent trip into the dunes saw him flee Fort Alistian, the brick and mortar palace that Raphael had resigned himself to. Arkash had been wounded, badly wounded. Without the aid of Asphodel, his most recent acquaintance, he surely would have died. He’d hoped to find some crook to sink his teeth into, some waif looking to capitalize on his dying body, but what he’d found instead was a generous soul, who’d taken him in and dedicated to seeing him back to health.
As his claws felt about the groove-like scar in his side, Arkash pondered. If he hadn’t reacted when he had when those spears came down on him, would he have died? He was sure some organs had been damaged in the attack, damage that he was only able to heal thanks to the aid of his blight. If it had been any deeper, would he have made it? He didn’t know.
Worse yet, his mark remained inactive. The tar-like substance in his chest tried constantly for his heart and rendered him breathless a lot of the time. Asphodel’s help saw him well for a time, but it always came back.
It was upsetting, to say the least. He thought he’d conquered general illness and common injury when he became a Dranoch, that such trivial things would get the better of him any further because of the boon to his regeneration. But there he was, choking on thin air again. It was as though he was still in Lower Nivenhain, wounded and sick. This time, however, common medicine wasn’t enough to heal him. His illness was born from magic, and it seemed that magic wasn’t even enough to fully repair him.
The only good thing about the situation, he supposed, was that he wouldn’t have to worry about it all too much longer.
Though Arkash wasn’t long for the world, he did spy something curious in the crag that he’d collapsed at; something irregular and captivating; something out of place that had clung to the forefront of his mind since he left. Able to walk again, and mostly functional, Arkash pushed through the dunes toward that place. He wished to investigate, even if he knew he was better off resting. He reasoned with himself that there was an off chance he’d be attacked again, and then he’d have an even better chance to heal when he fed on their bodies.
Arkash blinked at the thought; it had been some time since he fought without blood magic. It had accompanied for the past year. Could he fight without it? All he had was his raggedy clothes and the black sword that clung to his hip. Without a gun or the ability to weaponize the blood in the body of his opponent, what was he?
His draped head hung low for a moment while he pushed on through the sand, and began to climb the next dune to pave his way in the shifting sea.
Did it bother him? To have lost a part of himself? Not nearly to the degree that he’d suffered when he lost his arm and his eye, but he did feel the familiar phantom ache he did back then, just on the back of his head, where the mark had been drawn. He wondered if it was still there, beneath his scales, or if he’d truly lost the mark. There was no way he could know; even if he had the ability to see the back of his head, he wasn’t all too sure about splitting himself open when he couldn’t harden his wound to stop the bleeding.
He sighed while climbing the dune, and fell to his hand claws to drag his body up the slope. Again, his heart began to strain against the cage of Umbralplasm that had ensnared him. For a moment, it felt as though he would seize up again, but he didn’t. By the time he’d made it to the top, the fist-sized organ was hammering in his chest, loud in his ears, and beating irregularly. His breathing was deep and slow, but it at least sustained him. After a moment of recovery on all fours, he clambered to his feet, and moved to hold his strained side with a reach of his skinny digits.
His scars burned deep, a sort of tearing pain in the musculature there, deep stabbing pain in the guts around the site. He was pushing himself, he knew he was, but it didn't stop him.
Ahead of him, he beheld the sea of scorching sand, the air so hot that the ground itself appeared to shimmer and ripple like water. The rath squinted, adjusted the burlap wrap around his head, and continued his trudge through the endless blistering heat.
In hindsight, losing his thickened blood wasn’t so bad. His true form had excellent moisture retention; he didn’t feel thirsty even the slightest while the sun rained on his basalt scales. He was lighter, too, there wasn’t as much weight to his stride and he wasn’t nearly as hot as he had been while mutated. He supposed that also meant that he would suffer when he returned to Lorien, for his insulation was dampened.
If anything, the sun was pleasant now. He didn’t have to constantly worry for water anymore, he didn’t have to worry about the part of his body he’d sacrificed from, or the unnatural hue of his blood giving him away. Though he’d lost his mark, in some ways, he was free.
Eventually, the young Rath’s claws met the stone of the crag he’d searched for, some large, mountainous type of rock formation in the dune. He imaged that most of it was buried under the dune, but that didn’t matter. The wind hadn’t swept up or buried the space he was looking for since he was last there, but he did take a moment to rest against the stone while his heart thrummed intensely against his ribs. His mouth hung agape while he held himself there, then rolled his head to look at the crease of stone, the sheer cliff face he’d slumped and bled against.
The darkened mark of his dried blood remained, dirtied with the wear of rushing sand, but still there. He could smell the intensity of the iron concentration in his own blood and knew that when he'd been dying there his mutation was still receding.
He held still while he looked upon the spot, exhaled deeply, then shook his head in disappointment. Without another thought on the subject, he approached the site and opened one claw against the stone. With another deep exhale, he shrugged off the last of the exhaustion in his lungs, then brought his head to rest against the stone. A black crack laid deep in the rock, shrouded in darkness and obscuring the depths of the passage, but with the aid of his blight, Arkash was able to see clearly in the dark.
He squinted to focus his vision on the darkness and shield his gaze from the harsh light and curled his nose while his night vision activated. There, right in the back, he saw it again, that irregular shape. It was a sort of line, a bar of some kind? Protruding a few inches from the back wall.
It was deep, high up, too. Arkash was just a bit too short to comfortably reach his hand over the gap, but he tried to reach inside all the same. It didn’t really surprise him when he found that between the angle at which he had to bend his arm around the rock, and the depth to which he had to stretch to retrieve the thing, he couldn’t reach it. So, he withdrew his arm from the cool shade in the stone and squinted.
He needed a longer arm or something with which to reach the thing. Immediately, he began to look about the scene for a stick or some piece of debris to extend his arm, and then his eyes fell upon his sword. He thought for a moment, then nodded as he carefully took the flat of the blade, then reached it into the crack handle-first.
It took some maneuvering and shoulder strength, but he eventually managed to hook the thing with his handguard… But when he pulled on it, he found some degree of resistance. It was heavy, really stuck to the wall, so he began to unwrap his head and took the blade with his wrapped hands. Squeezing tightly, he began to pull with increasing weight… Until a loud cranking began to sound, and the thing he’d hooked slipped out. Arkash fell back on his tail at the sudden give, and his sword fell into the rock between his legs.
Hazy was the best way to describe how he’d felt when he first entered the Badlands, and hazy was how he felt the last time, too. His most recent trip into the dunes saw him flee Fort Alistian, the brick and mortar palace that Raphael had resigned himself to. Arkash had been wounded, badly wounded. Without the aid of Asphodel, his most recent acquaintance, he surely would have died. He’d hoped to find some crook to sink his teeth into, some waif looking to capitalize on his dying body, but what he’d found instead was a generous soul, who’d taken him in and dedicated to seeing him back to health.
As his claws felt about the groove-like scar in his side, Arkash pondered. If he hadn’t reacted when he had when those spears came down on him, would he have died? He was sure some organs had been damaged in the attack, damage that he was only able to heal thanks to the aid of his blight. If it had been any deeper, would he have made it? He didn’t know.
Worse yet, his mark remained inactive. The tar-like substance in his chest tried constantly for his heart and rendered him breathless a lot of the time. Asphodel’s help saw him well for a time, but it always came back.
It was upsetting, to say the least. He thought he’d conquered general illness and common injury when he became a Dranoch, that such trivial things would get the better of him any further because of the boon to his regeneration. But there he was, choking on thin air again. It was as though he was still in Lower Nivenhain, wounded and sick. This time, however, common medicine wasn’t enough to heal him. His illness was born from magic, and it seemed that magic wasn’t even enough to fully repair him.
The only good thing about the situation, he supposed, was that he wouldn’t have to worry about it all too much longer.
Though Arkash wasn’t long for the world, he did spy something curious in the crag that he’d collapsed at; something irregular and captivating; something out of place that had clung to the forefront of his mind since he left. Able to walk again, and mostly functional, Arkash pushed through the dunes toward that place. He wished to investigate, even if he knew he was better off resting. He reasoned with himself that there was an off chance he’d be attacked again, and then he’d have an even better chance to heal when he fed on their bodies.
Arkash blinked at the thought; it had been some time since he fought without blood magic. It had accompanied for the past year. Could he fight without it? All he had was his raggedy clothes and the black sword that clung to his hip. Without a gun or the ability to weaponize the blood in the body of his opponent, what was he?
His draped head hung low for a moment while he pushed on through the sand, and began to climb the next dune to pave his way in the shifting sea.
Did it bother him? To have lost a part of himself? Not nearly to the degree that he’d suffered when he lost his arm and his eye, but he did feel the familiar phantom ache he did back then, just on the back of his head, where the mark had been drawn. He wondered if it was still there, beneath his scales, or if he’d truly lost the mark. There was no way he could know; even if he had the ability to see the back of his head, he wasn’t all too sure about splitting himself open when he couldn’t harden his wound to stop the bleeding.
He sighed while climbing the dune, and fell to his hand claws to drag his body up the slope. Again, his heart began to strain against the cage of Umbralplasm that had ensnared him. For a moment, it felt as though he would seize up again, but he didn’t. By the time he’d made it to the top, the fist-sized organ was hammering in his chest, loud in his ears, and beating irregularly. His breathing was deep and slow, but it at least sustained him. After a moment of recovery on all fours, he clambered to his feet, and moved to hold his strained side with a reach of his skinny digits.
His scars burned deep, a sort of tearing pain in the musculature there, deep stabbing pain in the guts around the site. He was pushing himself, he knew he was, but it didn't stop him.
Ahead of him, he beheld the sea of scorching sand, the air so hot that the ground itself appeared to shimmer and ripple like water. The rath squinted, adjusted the burlap wrap around his head, and continued his trudge through the endless blistering heat.
In hindsight, losing his thickened blood wasn’t so bad. His true form had excellent moisture retention; he didn’t feel thirsty even the slightest while the sun rained on his basalt scales. He was lighter, too, there wasn’t as much weight to his stride and he wasn’t nearly as hot as he had been while mutated. He supposed that also meant that he would suffer when he returned to Lorien, for his insulation was dampened.
If anything, the sun was pleasant now. He didn’t have to constantly worry for water anymore, he didn’t have to worry about the part of his body he’d sacrificed from, or the unnatural hue of his blood giving him away. Though he’d lost his mark, in some ways, he was free.
Eventually, the young Rath’s claws met the stone of the crag he’d searched for, some large, mountainous type of rock formation in the dune. He imaged that most of it was buried under the dune, but that didn’t matter. The wind hadn’t swept up or buried the space he was looking for since he was last there, but he did take a moment to rest against the stone while his heart thrummed intensely against his ribs. His mouth hung agape while he held himself there, then rolled his head to look at the crease of stone, the sheer cliff face he’d slumped and bled against.
The darkened mark of his dried blood remained, dirtied with the wear of rushing sand, but still there. He could smell the intensity of the iron concentration in his own blood and knew that when he'd been dying there his mutation was still receding.
He held still while he looked upon the spot, exhaled deeply, then shook his head in disappointment. Without another thought on the subject, he approached the site and opened one claw against the stone. With another deep exhale, he shrugged off the last of the exhaustion in his lungs, then brought his head to rest against the stone. A black crack laid deep in the rock, shrouded in darkness and obscuring the depths of the passage, but with the aid of his blight, Arkash was able to see clearly in the dark.
He squinted to focus his vision on the darkness and shield his gaze from the harsh light and curled his nose while his night vision activated. There, right in the back, he saw it again, that irregular shape. It was a sort of line, a bar of some kind? Protruding a few inches from the back wall.
It was deep, high up, too. Arkash was just a bit too short to comfortably reach his hand over the gap, but he tried to reach inside all the same. It didn’t really surprise him when he found that between the angle at which he had to bend his arm around the rock, and the depth to which he had to stretch to retrieve the thing, he couldn’t reach it. So, he withdrew his arm from the cool shade in the stone and squinted.
He needed a longer arm or something with which to reach the thing. Immediately, he began to look about the scene for a stick or some piece of debris to extend his arm, and then his eyes fell upon his sword. He thought for a moment, then nodded as he carefully took the flat of the blade, then reached it into the crack handle-first.
It took some maneuvering and shoulder strength, but he eventually managed to hook the thing with his handguard… But when he pulled on it, he found some degree of resistance. It was heavy, really stuck to the wall, so he began to unwrap his head and took the blade with his wrapped hands. Squeezing tightly, he began to pull with increasing weight… Until a loud cranking began to sound, and the thing he’d hooked slipped out. Arkash fell back on his tail at the sudden give, and his sword fell into the rock between his legs.
Image source.
