74th of Ash, 120
An unshakable cold festered in his bones while he slept. No matter how much he tossed and turned, he couldn't escape the hard press at his sides, the weight in his leg, or the dirt that clung to his scales. All those combined brought Arkash to wake on the cold cave floor, nearby a burning campfire that contested with the pale-blue shine of the moon.
Arkash pressed his claws into the ground, and the rattle of chains followed his lift. As he turned over to peer at the ceiling, he lifted his upper body and gazed with strain at the moon, which glared through a gaping hole in the ground and shined on him. His eyes partially shut while he stared, then lifted his arm to block the bright light, only to catch his arm on the chain that trailed from his neck.
Immediately, Arkash gripped the metal, and pulled at an iron collar that wrapped around his neck. Fear claimed him as he scrambled to his feet, only to take the chain with both arms and pull. The metal collar strained his neck and his arms shook with the pressure, but the chain didn't break. It wasn't as though he truly believed he could snap metal, but what else could he do? Panic had seized his mind, and the thought to check for keyhole didn't strike until after he spotted Chitters.
The ratty man eyed Arkash, and Arkash watched him in turn. "Chitta's!" He called at last, then broke into a sprint, only to choke as the chain fully tensed. The momentum of his body continued, and he fell to the floor with a sudden hard thud. Tears welled in his eyes while he swallowed through the pain in his throat, and he carefully brought himself to sit up. Confusion and betrayal lined his eyes until he recalled: Chitters and Malafor had tried to kill him.
"Aye… Ye should count yerself lucky, Assassin," spoke the ratty man with a distinct curl to his lips. Arkash merely stared as the man approached, then shifted his claws to the iron collar. It was partly rusted in patches; he had to be careful not to break his scales. "Master Malafor hasn't given anyone, not a single soul his gift before ye. He's deemed ye worthy of his mark, his powers an' all!"
His mark? His powers? Arkash couldn't be sure, but in the past few months he'd learned a lot. Was Chitters talking about… "Magic?"
"Not just any magic," the ratty man explained. "Ancient, powerful magic. Yer a blood mage, Assassin; a Vandikar."
"...A wot?"
"A Vandikar, and a thumpin' good one, I'd wager."
Before Arkash could even begin to process what a blood mage was, the withered human entered the crudely-cut cave, and gradually became illuminated by the glow of the moon. At once, Chitters stood and backed away from the pair with his head low, and Malafor took his place.
"I was starting to think you were done for," the old mage spoke with an audible smile.
"...'Ew maed me a maeg…" Arkash thought aloud, still working through the revelation.
"That I did," affirmed the older male with something of a frown followed by a hard, hacking cough into his balled fist. Arkash stared dreadfully as the man coughed up rust-colored phlegm. Cojack, his late father, had shared similar symptoms for the last few years of his life. "All that fuss… wasn't so necessary now, was it?" Malafor spoke in reference to Arkash's resistance.
Sure, the young Rathari had wanted magic for the past few months, but he'd never even heard of blood magic. Obviously, it had something to do with blood, but how was that meant to be 'stronger than his wildest dreams', or whatever it was that Malafor had told him. "Thank 'ew… but-" Arkash was cut off as he was struck over the head. It didn't hurt, hell, his head barely moved just because the man before him was so withered.
"Speak properly. 'The fuck is an 'ew'? It's 'you'." Arkash focused his gaze on the old man with festering hatred. It didn't matter that Arkash had taken worse, the fact that the man before him thought he had any right to lay a hand on him infuriated him.
Though Arkash glared searing anger at the old man, Malafor only grinned in turn. With a flick of his wrist, Malafor’s eyes shined violet, and a weave wrapped Arkash’s form and forced him to the ground with a hefty slam. It was as though a massive weight had fallen upon him, and began to crush and squeeze the life out of him. Arkash strained and bared his teeth, only to cry out in pain a short second later. The pressure built so severely that his bones felt near breaking, and then, in an instant, the spell stopped. Arkash laid there, breathing heavily while his frayed nerves composed themselves. The purple weave remained wrapped around him, but he was in one piece.
The old man’s cane came to rest on Arkash’s cheek. The rathari merely shut his eye and flinched at the perceived threat. “Look at me like that again and I’ll blind you,” warned the old man with a voice that dripped venom. Simultaneously, the press of his cane drifted to Arkash’s eye. It was only then that Arkash moved one of his claws to grip the cane, but the old man promptly stomped the rath’s arm to hold it down. Arkash grunted in pain and bared his teeth. “You will do what I say when I say it. Understand?” Arkash didn’t immediately reply, which prompted the old man to twist his boot on Arkash’s scales. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!” he bellowed.
"Yeah! I ge’ i’!" he cried, only to be struck with a jab of the cane to the side of the head. The rathari hissed and gripped the stone of the cave floor.
"I told you to speak properly," snarled the human, who then relented the press of his boot and his cane alike. “Get the fuck up,” he ordered and took a circular step away from the rath.
At once, Arkash rolled to his hands and strained his arm before he scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off. All the while, his hateful gaze burned holes in the back of Malafor’s head. Unfortunately, the old man turned in time to see the glare, grinned, then swung his cane at Arkash. TImed perfectly, Arkash lifted his dexterous claws to catch the swipe then dove at the old man with his claws aimed to strike, only to slow and freeze in place. He suddenly was unable to move, caught in a shell of telekinetic force.
The snarl in Arkash’s lips held while he was frozen, and his eyes remained glued on the man. “You’re quite the hardass, aren’t you? 'Not going to make this easy for either of us.” With that, the man stepped past Arkash’s claws to close the gap, then pressed Arkash’s own knife against his chest. Arkash could feel the blade against his scales, but he was unable to do anything to defend himself. “I might have fixed the wounds you got from the initiation, but don’t think I won’t fucking destroy you to prove a point.” Arkash’s wounds? That was right, he recalled several gashes opening all over his body when Malafor initiated him. The old man had fixed them? “My kindness is not weakness. If you make me, I’ll rip you up and stitch you back together a hundred times over. Try me.”
With that, the weave fell apart, and Arkash stumbled as his muscles caught his weight. He only briefly met Malafor’s gaze before he looked away, turned and backed away from the human. Arkash couldn’t kill him, not without his weapons, not without some plan. His claws lifted to his chest, where he felt his scales. There was no scarring at all, and he discovered as much as he examined his form.
”Or-” Arkash paused, then pulled his lips as he focused on his speech. “Alrite..” he corrected. Malafor grinned. “...Can I ...have sum wota’?” Even his best efforts couldn’t override years of practice in common. That was the way he spoke, and would be for some time.
Malafor inhaled deeply through his nose, then shook his head. “Well, at least you’re trying,” he commented briefly. “You can have some water once you perform some blood magic,”
He declared, then crossed his hands behind his back in a style that reminded Arkash a militant leader.
”...How?” Remembering to pronounce the H properly was key in his success. Malafor passed Arkash the knife, which the rath caught with general ease with his superior hand-eye coordination.
"Open your wrist,” he instructed.
”WHAT?!”
A hard glare from the man brought Arkash’s features to curl. Right, he was meant to obey the old man no matter what. Malafor wanted him alive, Arkash knew. He wouldn’t allow Arkash to bleed out, right? So, he turned his attention to his wrist and began to lower onto his knees. There, on the cave floor, he pressed the blade to his wrist and bared his teeth as he shallowly broke his scales. Malafor stared, unimpressed. “Deeper,” he ordered. “Slash the fucker.”
Arkash winced at his words, and his breathing began to pick up in frequency as his heartbeat hardened. He had to hurt himself. The cringe he experienced made his fingers numb, and his wrists ached deeply. His teeth were on edge, and his blood seemed to run cold. He’d began to tremble when malafor barked his order to complete the task, and Arkash shut his eyes as he pressed the knife into his wrist and ripped.
Searing pain rushed through him as a spout of red gushes from the slash. He was bleeding heavily, and his eyes opened to focus on the flow. "O-oh!" He cried as fear and regret overcame him, and he dropped the knife. What had he done? At once, he reached his shaky claws to his flowing wrist, but Malafor barked a firm “LET IT BLEED.”
”P-please!” Arkash pleaded as he stayed his shaky claws. He’d never bled so much, so he believed. The sight forced a feeling of unsteadiness and made his head hurt with the dread of what he’d done. It was all placebo, but all his instincts convinced him that he was going to die from the wound. Sure enough, without medical aid, he would. He fell to rest on his tail, shivering cold by the time malafor approached and sewed the wound shut with his grafting needle.
Arkash breathed heavily and raggedly as the flow of blood stopped, then held his head to ease the pressure in his skull. Just like that, it was over. He was weak and cold from the blood loss, but he was going to survive. A hard slurp pulled the strands of his venom into his maw as he recovered from the mental strain of slashing his wrist.
Just moments later, Chitters approached with a jug of water, and poured the fluids into Arkash’s maw, which he cooperated with. He drank as much as he was allowed, then wiped his lips clean with the same arm he’d slashed. “Thank you…” he spoke quietly and remained sitting on his tail as Malafor stood, then stepped over the small puddle of blood.
”Use the energy within you to shape that blood. Mold it like it’s clay, but without touching it,” the human instructed without acknowledging Arkash’s thanks.
The rathari blinked, then looked to the puddle. Mold it? Like clay? It was liquid. How could he do such a thing? He sat up a little, and his head span, so he fell back into his legs and rested. One claw pressed into the floor to steady himself while his other extended to the blood. There, he tried to focus. His wrists were still numb with shock, but the light exertion wasn’t too draining. “Focus,” ordered Malafor, who watched the Rathari’s progress.
It took a few attempts and angles, but eventually, the back of his head burned, and the blood began to converge on a single point in the center of the pool. It hurt to force, but eventually, the blood formed an off-shaped ball, and held there as Arkash released the strain. He breathed heavily and rested on both his claws while he recovered.
In turn, Malafor nodded once and turned to walk his lithe, withered form out of the cave. Chitters was left there to aid Arkash.
Image source.
