Rune

Notes:
- An inventor and a mage; originally worked on a Human invention called a "gun"
- He's on neither side, he much prefers to be left alone to his creations
- Blind, like Anika, but he takes a potion made for him by his mate so that he can see the outlines of objects at least five feet away from him
- Sells his creations to guards, however he gave his gun to Cyra after she helped him with a few calibrations
- He lost his daughter to the Phylakitai and he despises the guards, however he knows its his head if he sparks an argument with them for he knows how sensitive they are and how powerhungry they are
- He often stands up against Danni, who torments Raven for aspiring to be a sculptor and often asking him for spare flowers so that she can practice
- He's ageless, as a mage

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-1-
All Rune could do was watch as the event unfolded.
A few minutes ago he was sitting on the railing of the Lady Gwen, an infamous warlock slavery ship, tending to the gashes along his arms and wings in the hopes that they’d heal before noon. He’d occupied his mind with the carvings and crevices that had been jabbed into the woodwork by bored sailors, had listened to the creaking of the masts and the flutter of the large, murky white sails rather than his own hissing. He’d thought of the land just beyond his reach—just beyond any of their reaches—with its lush green grass, its meadows of gold-tinted corn, its constant sound of chattering and laughing and squealing as the tonic seeped into his skin and numbed it, readying itself for the soft puncture of a needle.
He’d had hope just then; he’d had a dream. It was a dream about soaring above pine trees, dipping in and out of waterfalls, rolling down hills and staining his favourite clothes with a green tint. He’d let the strong scent of mint sting his nose, he’d let the leaves caught in his hair stay for as long as they wanted before flying off to find a new host.
It all seemed so far away now as he was forced to watch his friend drop to his knees in an act of begging.
Sepharin was his name. Tall, lanky, super intelligent and definitely not fit for a slaver’s ship. He was the shy guy, the loner, the bookworm. He was always dressed in a tunic of sorts—often a shade of blue to go with the mint of his skin—with at least one book in his arms and, whenever she wasn’t around, he’d come down and visit the knackered, sweaty and often-bleeding Spiral. He’d read to him then, helping him through the agony in more ways than he could ever know.
“You betrayed us,” Seph’s twin sister hissed, standing over him now that he was on his knees. She looked exactly like him, and if they were the same height, she could easily use that against anyone aboard the ship. “You’re one of them!”
“Please,” he pleaded from where he was knelt. Tears were streaming down his face. “Haera, I’m not—”
The female growled low in her throat and sliced his cheek with a ritual knife as a warning. Rune bit down on his lip to stop himself from snapping at her when his friend yelped in pain.
“I’m n-not one of them.” The crack in the Bogsneak’s voice broke his heart.
“Explain the mark then, traitor,” one of the sailors chided from along the deck. A chorus of roars backed him up.
The male’s face instantly fell; lip trembling and eyes scrunched shut. All of the sailors around him stared, mumbled and even grinned at the pain they were putting him through because of peer pressure, and his patience was stretched taut.
“Where did you get it from?” a female cried within the crowd.
“I don’t—”
“Maybe he’s a spy for them!” The accusation from Haera’s first mate rose all sorts of agreeing mumbles. He was stood above them all, beside the ship’s wheel, and the urge to snarl and snap at him became nearly unbearable.
It was the next one that broke him. “Kill him!”
“Leave him alone, for Deities’ sake!” the Spiral cried from where he was being held by Barnaby, the best and strongest sailor they had. Says a lot about my reputation, he’d managed to joke once, Sepharin stitching up the wounds he couldn’t reach as he did his best not to pass out. “He doesn’t deserve this!”
Silence followed, along with a bunch of angry stares that made his skin prickle, yet the only one he focused on was his only friend’s grateful, if fearful, gaze.
“Why doesn’t he?” Haera asked him with a snarl as she strolled over to him in the corner of his vision. Her black seafoam coat whispered all kinds of threats and danger as she moved.
“Because he didn’t earn the mark on his neck overnight,” Rune growled. His eyes were still on the male a few feet before him. “Everyone knows that.”
The female’s eyes turned evil, depthless, as she grinned menacingly. “No honey.” She used the ritual knife to brush his lengthy mane out of the way, the tip of it scraping the crook of his neck and sending a slight shiver across his nerves... the same hell-bent knife that caused the excruciating pain he was in the night before was now scratching over the rune permanently burnt into his neck. “Only other warlocks know that.”
He couldn’t help bit wriggle slightly under the knife that was angled dangerously close to his neck. Her smile only widened.
“Please don’t hurt him, Haera” Seph begged. “He’s been through enough.”
His twin made a soft hum of acted consideration when the knife flicked from one paw to another and stopped just before his eyes by the width of a single hair. The intention of what she was going to do—what she promised she would do if he stood up to her again—flashed before his eyes like the light glinting on the knife. Rune couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped him.
“Where’s the fun in that?” she said low enough for only Rune to hear.
He didn’t have time to prepare himself for the onslaught of agony that followed.