80th of Frost, 4621
His shining red eyes had been on the additions to his body for some time. Sat there in the sand, Arkash held up one of his clawed arms and inspected the black quills that raised and shifted so slightly in the wind. Some were featherless, more like spines that rustled in the breeze. Curiously, he watched them while he flexed his fingers and closed a fist.
He wondered what their purpose was, what they would do for him. Were they like whiskers? Extra feelers that would detect changes in the flow of the air? More importantly, he wondered where they'd come from. Fayeth had never shown her Cardinal abilities, Arkash was none the wiser on what his physical changes meant.
His other hand, also quilled, felt along the side that had been torn open in his fight with Raphael; he hadn't so much as a mark, but there was some debris and sand that had been ejected from the pit of the wound. He breathed easily, despite all the damage his lungs had sustained in the last season, and his eyes saw clearly despite his reptilian traits, and he blinked quickly while he adjusted to the far sight he'd been gifted.
The gleaming red of his eyes saw his claws as black flames began to pour and billow from them in the wind. Though they didn't burn, they felt cold against his scales. That same chill lingered on his mouth, and as he lifted his claws to wrap his muzzle, he found that same chilling flame on his disastrously sharp teeth, beneath the woven burlap that wrapped his features as protection from the sun.
With the power in his limbs, his quickened vision, the quills, the powers in his claws and teeth, Arkash quickly put two and two together.
He had evolved; he was a Cardinal.
A smile crept upon his lips when the realization struck and he sorted through his thoughts in search of confirmation. He didn't know what else could cause such change within him, he must have evolved. What else could it be?
But how did he stop?
How did he make the flames and the quills go away? How was he supposed to blend in with the masses like that?
He would think of something, he resolved with a shake of his head, and began to pull the burlap shirt from his head, only to catch it on the quills that extended from the back. As he felt the shifting roots in his scales, he heard the tear of the fabric, and his slave shirt came apart in rags. Arkash furrowed his brow while he held the destroyed garment, then lifted his gaze to the scorching sun, gone midday. It didn't hurt to peer into, and when he looked down he still saw clearly; there were no darkened spots in his vision.
With a smile, he returned his gaze to the ruined shirt and inspected all the stains and cuts in its body. He'd worn it for the better part of six months, and though it had been torn to pieces time and time again, he had no intention of redressing himself in that vile potato sack. With a shake of his head, he tossed it aside, then rolled onto his hands with no strain in his side. He really was completely healed, perfectly intact. Almost unable to believe it, Arkash stretched over his head and pulled hard on his side to test it. There was nothing, no degree of pain or discomfort.
Though he'd buried his claws in the sand in the motion, he found the flames still burning. A deep breath through his nose saw him shrug, and he began to sort through the garments he'd extracted from the earth.
There had been a body in the sand, no more than stray bones in the ground, held together by the cumulative rags of their clothing. Arkash had fed on those bones in an attempt to heal his side, but the power in the stranger's body was apparently enough to push him over the edge and force his evolution. Their identity didn't matter to him, but he was grateful for their strength in life, as well as their belongings.
The tattered fabrics that once clung to the body were set in a pile, which Arkash began to pull apart and set on the floor so that he could get an idea for the shape of the various fragments of clothing he had to work with. Meanwhile, the sun continued its reign on his pale scales.
After some time staring at the collection of fabrics, and standing against the billowing desert winds. Arkash tapped his chin with the burning claw, then began to organize them on the ground into a sort of order that was meant to behold what was usable for clothing and what was not. From there, he gathered what would make a decent covering, and organized it in order that he would wear it. There were a few different layers involved, and some parts that would surely need sewing, but he'd built some sort of robe to cover himself with.
A nod preceded his disrobing, and he pulled his tail from his pants before he slid the garment down his legs and kicked it to the ragged shirt. Bare to the desert wind, he began to dress again and wove the fabric around himself in a way that was comfortable and didn't restrict his movement. When at last he was done, he breathed a sigh of relief and rolled his neck to test his spines against the fabric. He was dressed, comfortable, and at least protected from the sun for every stretch of scales that wasn't his head.
As he began to sift through the various pieces of worn metal that adorned the body he’d robbed, Arkash very carefully collected the brass ring with that violet stone mounted in the metal, and gently guided it over his burning claw to rest near his knuckle. He took a moment to examine himself and felt about the bare scales of his head. With the point of the dark quills along the back of his neck, there was no way he could fit a hood or some sort of coif in his outfit. He needed some other sort of protection from the harsh sun, but what?
Crimson eyes darted about the various pieces in the sand before a sound caught him by surprise. The shift of granules beneath the pillar of weight was unmistakably the press of someone’s foot. He tried not to pause but with such shock, it was hard to conceal his hesitation. Fluidly, he threw his form to the floor, rolled across the sand as he collected his rifle, and landed on one knee with his gun raised in the direction of the sound.
A human stood there, a human female dressed in typical badlander attire fashioned with hides, buckles chains and all sorts. One of her eyes was covered by a corrugated eyepatch, and a shallow scar ran beneath from the top of her brow to her cheek. Her light skin was painted with dark ink, some of which he imagined was tattooed permanently on her body. Her hair was a lot like that of his human form, just dyed a shade of teal at certain depths on each lock.
“Fuckin’ a’!” She called, eyes wide above the wrap of her mask.
His eyes darted to the weapon in her hand, a pistol aimed at the sky with an open hand. “Drop it,” he spoke sharp, threat abundant in the low rumble of a reptilian hiss that accompanied his voice.
“Alright, geez! Hold on a sec!” She called, but didn’t obey him.
“DROP IT!” He roared, his final warning woven with his words.
“OKAY!” She called back and let the weapon fall from her grip. “E-easy! Take it easy!” She spoke, trembling visibly. He could almost feel the tremors that ran through her legs from where she stood.
“Kick it over,” he ordered. With a motion of his rifle’s barrel.
She complied and lifted the gun with the bridge of her foot before she tossed it in his direction. “I’m not robbing you-!” She began to explain.
“I know,” Arkash returned as he collected her weapon, and lowered his rifle. “That would be hard without your gun, wouldn’t it?”
Her features turned a shade of red, flustered with her annoyance. “I mean I wasn’t gonna! I could’a shot you the moment I saw you, you know!”
Arkash rose a brow, then shrugged. “Maybe you should’a,” he offered with an open claw, assuming a little of her dialect subtly. As he aimed her own gun at her, he let the weight of his own gun lay in the sand. “Got any ammo? I was out, see,” he motioned with a tap to the rifle’s revolving chamber.
The woman stared in disbelief, anger curling in her features. “Cheeky prick!” she called and spat. Arkash pulled back the hammer of the pistol in response, but her glare remained. “You’re not gonna shoot me,” she declared, confident in the furrow of her brow.
“I’ve shot people for less,” he warned preceding a long silence that stretched between them. The woman pried at the seams of his cold exterior with her one eye and Arkash pressed hard with the cruel leer of his crimson gaze, only to lower the pistol at last. “But you’re right, I won’t.” he lowered the gun and set it in the sand beside him. A relieved breath flattened her lungs, and she lowered her hands. “What do you want?” He began at last, brow furrowed.
His shining red eyes had been on the additions to his body for some time. Sat there in the sand, Arkash held up one of his clawed arms and inspected the black quills that raised and shifted so slightly in the wind. Some were featherless, more like spines that rustled in the breeze. Curiously, he watched them while he flexed his fingers and closed a fist.
He wondered what their purpose was, what they would do for him. Were they like whiskers? Extra feelers that would detect changes in the flow of the air? More importantly, he wondered where they'd come from. Fayeth had never shown her Cardinal abilities, Arkash was none the wiser on what his physical changes meant.
His other hand, also quilled, felt along the side that had been torn open in his fight with Raphael; he hadn't so much as a mark, but there was some debris and sand that had been ejected from the pit of the wound. He breathed easily, despite all the damage his lungs had sustained in the last season, and his eyes saw clearly despite his reptilian traits, and he blinked quickly while he adjusted to the far sight he'd been gifted.
The gleaming red of his eyes saw his claws as black flames began to pour and billow from them in the wind. Though they didn't burn, they felt cold against his scales. That same chill lingered on his mouth, and as he lifted his claws to wrap his muzzle, he found that same chilling flame on his disastrously sharp teeth, beneath the woven burlap that wrapped his features as protection from the sun.
With the power in his limbs, his quickened vision, the quills, the powers in his claws and teeth, Arkash quickly put two and two together.
He had evolved; he was a Cardinal.
A smile crept upon his lips when the realization struck and he sorted through his thoughts in search of confirmation. He didn't know what else could cause such change within him, he must have evolved. What else could it be?
But how did he stop?
How did he make the flames and the quills go away? How was he supposed to blend in with the masses like that?
He would think of something, he resolved with a shake of his head, and began to pull the burlap shirt from his head, only to catch it on the quills that extended from the back. As he felt the shifting roots in his scales, he heard the tear of the fabric, and his slave shirt came apart in rags. Arkash furrowed his brow while he held the destroyed garment, then lifted his gaze to the scorching sun, gone midday. It didn't hurt to peer into, and when he looked down he still saw clearly; there were no darkened spots in his vision.
With a smile, he returned his gaze to the ruined shirt and inspected all the stains and cuts in its body. He'd worn it for the better part of six months, and though it had been torn to pieces time and time again, he had no intention of redressing himself in that vile potato sack. With a shake of his head, he tossed it aside, then rolled onto his hands with no strain in his side. He really was completely healed, perfectly intact. Almost unable to believe it, Arkash stretched over his head and pulled hard on his side to test it. There was nothing, no degree of pain or discomfort.
Though he'd buried his claws in the sand in the motion, he found the flames still burning. A deep breath through his nose saw him shrug, and he began to sort through the garments he'd extracted from the earth.
There had been a body in the sand, no more than stray bones in the ground, held together by the cumulative rags of their clothing. Arkash had fed on those bones in an attempt to heal his side, but the power in the stranger's body was apparently enough to push him over the edge and force his evolution. Their identity didn't matter to him, but he was grateful for their strength in life, as well as their belongings.
The tattered fabrics that once clung to the body were set in a pile, which Arkash began to pull apart and set on the floor so that he could get an idea for the shape of the various fragments of clothing he had to work with. Meanwhile, the sun continued its reign on his pale scales.
After some time staring at the collection of fabrics, and standing against the billowing desert winds. Arkash tapped his chin with the burning claw, then began to organize them on the ground into a sort of order that was meant to behold what was usable for clothing and what was not. From there, he gathered what would make a decent covering, and organized it in order that he would wear it. There were a few different layers involved, and some parts that would surely need sewing, but he'd built some sort of robe to cover himself with.
A nod preceded his disrobing, and he pulled his tail from his pants before he slid the garment down his legs and kicked it to the ragged shirt. Bare to the desert wind, he began to dress again and wove the fabric around himself in a way that was comfortable and didn't restrict his movement. When at last he was done, he breathed a sigh of relief and rolled his neck to test his spines against the fabric. He was dressed, comfortable, and at least protected from the sun for every stretch of scales that wasn't his head.
As he began to sift through the various pieces of worn metal that adorned the body he’d robbed, Arkash very carefully collected the brass ring with that violet stone mounted in the metal, and gently guided it over his burning claw to rest near his knuckle. He took a moment to examine himself and felt about the bare scales of his head. With the point of the dark quills along the back of his neck, there was no way he could fit a hood or some sort of coif in his outfit. He needed some other sort of protection from the harsh sun, but what?
Crimson eyes darted about the various pieces in the sand before a sound caught him by surprise. The shift of granules beneath the pillar of weight was unmistakably the press of someone’s foot. He tried not to pause but with such shock, it was hard to conceal his hesitation. Fluidly, he threw his form to the floor, rolled across the sand as he collected his rifle, and landed on one knee with his gun raised in the direction of the sound.
A human stood there, a human female dressed in typical badlander attire fashioned with hides, buckles chains and all sorts. One of her eyes was covered by a corrugated eyepatch, and a shallow scar ran beneath from the top of her brow to her cheek. Her light skin was painted with dark ink, some of which he imagined was tattooed permanently on her body. Her hair was a lot like that of his human form, just dyed a shade of teal at certain depths on each lock.
“Fuckin’ a’!” She called, eyes wide above the wrap of her mask.
His eyes darted to the weapon in her hand, a pistol aimed at the sky with an open hand. “Drop it,” he spoke sharp, threat abundant in the low rumble of a reptilian hiss that accompanied his voice.
“Alright, geez! Hold on a sec!” She called, but didn’t obey him.
“DROP IT!” He roared, his final warning woven with his words.
“OKAY!” She called back and let the weapon fall from her grip. “E-easy! Take it easy!” She spoke, trembling visibly. He could almost feel the tremors that ran through her legs from where she stood.
“Kick it over,” he ordered. With a motion of his rifle’s barrel.
She complied and lifted the gun with the bridge of her foot before she tossed it in his direction. “I’m not robbing you-!” She began to explain.
“I know,” Arkash returned as he collected her weapon, and lowered his rifle. “That would be hard without your gun, wouldn’t it?”
Her features turned a shade of red, flustered with her annoyance. “I mean I wasn’t gonna! I could’a shot you the moment I saw you, you know!”
Arkash rose a brow, then shrugged. “Maybe you should’a,” he offered with an open claw, assuming a little of her dialect subtly. As he aimed her own gun at her, he let the weight of his own gun lay in the sand. “Got any ammo? I was out, see,” he motioned with a tap to the rifle’s revolving chamber.
The woman stared in disbelief, anger curling in her features. “Cheeky prick!” she called and spat. Arkash pulled back the hammer of the pistol in response, but her glare remained. “You’re not gonna shoot me,” she declared, confident in the furrow of her brow.
“I’ve shot people for less,” he warned preceding a long silence that stretched between them. The woman pried at the seams of his cold exterior with her one eye and Arkash pressed hard with the cruel leer of his crimson gaze, only to lower the pistol at last. “But you’re right, I won’t.” he lowered the gun and set it in the sand beside him. A relieved breath flattened her lungs, and she lowered her hands. “What do you want?” He began at last, brow furrowed.
Image source.
