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W A U N T E D
Shadow Binder | Shadow Binder | Shadow Binder
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STATISTICS:
STR
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DEX
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CON
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INT
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WIS
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INT
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Biography written by Ozie on January, 7th, 2017
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Apparel:
Copper Steampunk Gloves, Gem Thief, Windwalker's Arctic Coat, Poisonous Woodtrail, Barbarian's Leather Boots and Copper Steampunk Goggles.
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Skin:
Leaf on the Wind.
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Familiar:
Spirit of Wind, an ephemeral spirit animal that contains the essence of wind.
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Genes:
White, crystal.
White, facet.
White, circuit.
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____Darkness. It was dark, and cold. So very, very cold. Where am I raced through his mind over and over again. WhereamIwhereamIwhereamIwhereamI. Shivers raced over his glowing body and—wait... Glowing?!
He looked down and around, to where his body should have been, and yet all that was there was a faint glow of fluorescent white matter. Panic raked through him at unimaginable speeds, chest heaving. How am I breathing? Where am I? What am I? His eyes raked across the ever-darkened plain around him, searching for purchase on the ground or any ground. There was none. He kept turning and turning around in circles to search for something – anything – to float towards. A light perhaps, or maybe another dragon. Seconds felt like minutes and then felt like hours as he circled on the spot. What time is it? Night or day? Morning or afternoon?
The more he turned, the more he noticed little specks floating around him like dust catching onto the late afternoon sun. He tried to reach towards the one that was closest to him; it looked more like a flat ping-pong ball than it did a speck of light, and as he – well, his matter – touched the speck, a clan appeared before him. Whether it was the present, past or future, he didn't know. He just watched with fascination at what unfolded before him.
The “image” before him showed a ruby red Imperial draped in fiery red dress. His eyes shone against the bruised outline of his features. His chest was heaving, his muscles looking limp and eaten up. His bones popped up against his scales and his ribcage in his panting body were visible, even from a 100 steps away. Mud and blood spotted his mouth, paws, tail and – basically – everywhere. His wings were torn, his mouth upturned in a grimace. Another dragon sat by him, and another: One shining gold against the dying light, wearing brown attire that suggest he was a role from the military, and the other was a fluorescent white, like himself, and she wore the formal dress of a leader. Neither shows any bit of emotion, but the shadows in their eyes suggested they at least felt something for the dying Imperial. The land around them was littered with discarded bits of armour and weaponary, as well as thuribles for the dead.
“He's going to be okay, right?” the female Bogsneak asked the other. “He's going to be at peace?”
The other chuckled, a small but happiness-filled noise from the depth of his throat. “I didn't think you'd ask.”
“I know I shouldn't, after how he treated us, but I still cared about him – albeit a small bit.”
He watched as the pearly-white female buried her face in the crook of the other's neck – probably lovers by the looks of it. The sight wrenched at his heart and pulled a smile onto his face as he neared them, and as soon as he finished his floaty travelling, he suddenly knew when and where this was. This was all happening in the present moment. A battle had erected from within the clan itself, putting ally against ally, dragon against dragon. Many hadn't survived the onslaught of the opposing side, but all had fought as bravely as they could.
The Imperial before them had been known as the “Emperor” of the clan. He went by the name of Waunted as a young hatchling, but later lost interest in it. He was much more limp than expected, his breathing raspy and harsh. It was obvious he was suffering, but from what? It was unknown. His attire was torn, most of it scattered around the trio. Maybe he's suffering the aftermath of an explosion? It didn't matter. He was to die, and that was all that would be told.
The two Bogsneaks beside him ranged in colour and size. The one on the left, the female, was known as Megan. By the clothes, he'd already guessed she was a war leader, and had been proven right as the knowledge flowed into him like a river. She'd had a rough past, and had found this place – and her star-crossed lover – by chance. Megan had been treated horribly by the dying Imperial, and yet the look in her lightning blue eyes suggested she still cared, “albeit a small bit”, as she'd said. The taller and golden-looking fellow usually went by the name Jackson by friends, and sometimes Commander if dragons got the couple mixed up. He was wearing most of the same attire as his lover, but a darker and ruddier shade – a mixture of brown hues. His eyes were a stark, shimmering green that stood out from the rest of him, but they were shadowed. Almost darker than they would usually be. Perhaps by memory of what happened to his home town. His figure was tense, ready for any surprise attacks. But nothing came.
You should help them, a little voice piped up inside of the floating mass’s “mind”. He looked around for a vessel to use, and only got a tut from the voice before pulling at him to face one he remembered.
It was a shining blue Skydancer of Cyan. His skin that usually coveted his scales was torn. Almost as if it were shredded. His things were laying scattered around him in a cluster of material and fabric and paper. The mass felt his vision blur, realising it was a normal dragon's emotion and memory that caught him off guard. Brimstone, he thought grudgingly as he floated over, placed a blob of mass on his shoulder. He was cold. Freezing, in fact.
You should use it.
And so he did.
____“You're okay!” a shrill voice cried near to him.
“Ay-ay-ay, tune it down, will you?” he called back, surprising himself with his gruff voice. He made himself lift one heavy eyelid and look the dragoness in the eye, feeling more of the knowledge swim into him.
Her name was Moarah, the healer dragon of the clan. She was a lovely mixture of red, white and a small bit of green from her patterned scales, and her eyes were fixed on his own. On Brimstone's, he chastised himself. He found himself staring back into her fiery orange eyes, watching as her life bleed out before him – until she asked, “Uh, you okay?”
He shook his head softly, and she mistook it for a “no” shake of the head when it was really a “sorry, I was too busy watching your life unfold before me, which I'm pretty sure isn't meant to happen with normal dragons” shake of the head. “Oh,” she said quietly. “I'm-”
“Don't apologise,” he interrupted, surprising the poor Skydancer. “It was rude of me to stare. I'm sorry.”
He watch a small smile play at her mouth before she turned towards a small, wooden desk a few steps away, and pride poured into his heart for making that happen. He heard Moarah ask for his name, and confusion clouded his train of thought. Am I not using Brimstone's body and name? He thought to himself.
No, his small mind’s voice squeaked merrily. This body is now your own. All documents and memories of Brimstone's have been wiped.
Oh. Poor Brimstone, he thought.
“Um,” he drawled. Did I even have a name to begin with?
“You don't know what your name is?”
Choose one, the little voice – let's call it Helpful-But-Not-Helpful – sang.
“Wanted,” he found himself blurting out, and immediately started chastising himself. He could here Helpful-But-Not-Helpful howling in his mind. Waunted was quite sure it'd be tearing up from laughing if it wasn't just his mind's voice.
“Waunted?” the Skydancer opposite him asked with a sketched eyebrow.
“Yeeeah..?”
“Okay then!”
Wait, what?
“You're free to go,” she called out over her shoulder. “Take it easy, though. Oh, and go see Megan. She wanted to talk to you about how you ended up in battle. She's-”
“I know what she looks like,” he growled, desperate to get out. “Thank you.”
Moarah turned to face him. “How?”
“Propaganda.”
Moarah just gave a little hmph before turning back to a hideously tall pile of books and journals. Bless the Deities, H.B.N.H cried out, compelling Waunted to agree. The pile scraped the stone ceiling above them, swaying with the small draft coming from an open window. Next to the window was the way out of the cramped living space which had to be both Moarah’s home and work space. Waunted willed his flimsy muscles to work, to bat away the cushions upon cushions. It took a while, that's for sure, and it took a lot of trial and error that consisted of toppling over onto the floor, but it was worth it; to feel the crisp air on his face and in his mane.
He closed his eyes as his small paw clasped onto the brass handle and turned... Oh, and walked straight into the same golden-coloured Bogsneak he saw from when he was nothing more than faintly glowing mass. Jackson.
“I'm so sorry,” Waunted stuttered after righting himself and went to help him.
“It's fine,” Jackson chuckled whilst batting away Waunted’s attempt to help. “You're the survivor, aren't you?”
“Am I the only one?” Concern laced his words together like dew drops to a spider's silky web.
“Other than Megan and I? Yes. The others never went.”
Oh, sweet Deities.
“Do you know where your other half is?” he asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject. “Apparently I need to-”
“She's right behind you,” a soft voice laughed behind him.
Waunted yelped and swivelled to see the pearly Bogsneak smirking at him. Her eyes were heavy lidded, almost relaxed, as she took him in with a sweep of her eyes: A coat, multiple bags, a small wooden mask and gloves all attuned to the colours of his skin.
“Ma'am,” he muttered.
He'd barely said it before the Commander started laughing. It took him a moment to realise that it wasn’t at him, but at the title. “There's no need for that around here,” she giggled, patting his shoulder as she passed him. “Just ‘Megan’ will do.”
He hummed in response before asking, “How can you be so relaxed after fighting?”
She stopped her little trot towards Jackson and turned to face him, her wolf cape flicking and swishing softly as she did. “That's the first thing you ask?”
“Uh...” His voice trailed off as embarrassment took hold of his vocal cords and squeezed.
“He's almost as inquisitive as you, babe,” the golden Bogsneak butted in with a wink before sauntering off down the dirt track around them. A white shadow trailed him, poised for a strike and stole his wolf cape from atop his head. His howl of laughter could be heard from a hundred steps off, and emotion clutched and grasped at Waunted’s heart as he stared after the lovedragons and their “fight” over the cape that was full of jokes and snarky remarks. After a few ticks, the taller of the geo Bogs nuzzled the other on top of her nose and told her something in a quiet voice. Whatever it was, it brought a smile to her face as they turned their separate ways.
“Something amusing, soldier?” she called out before him with a cocked, bird like look to her head. She still wore her little smirk like a piece of prized jewellery by the time she reached him.
“No,” he answered bluntly, watching Jackson stalk off down the track.
“Walk with me, Waunted.”
And so he did..
They were halfway down the dirt track that headed towards a large, marble mansion when the Bogsneak asked, out of the blue, “What's your clan like?”
“My... clan?” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t have one.”
Megan stopped in her tracks and gave him a side ways glance that lived and breathed danger. “You don't have a clan?”
Waunted shook his head.
Her eyes grew darker with every passing moment. “You're not a Rogue, are you?”
“A rogue, ma'am?”
He watched with no small bit of relief as her look went from danger to confusion to nothing. Her gaze wasn’t even on him when it went to confusion. It was behind him. He turned to see a beady-eyed raven staring back at him with three eyes. Two on it's head, and one on it's... chest?
“Huh,” Megan muttered in slight confusion and calculation. “We don't get Death Seekers around here.”
“How come? I thought this was Shadow territory.”
“It is, but Death Seekers don’t come here. They usually hang around Plague territory. The only time we get them is when we...” Her voice trailed off into nothing as she stood there, calculating.
A war leader indeed, he thought with a mixture of fascination and fear. "I believe she's watching you, soldier," she growled, eyeing the bird as if her life depended on it.
"That's a bit freaky," he added for her, edging away from the beady-eyed menace.
"Come on, Waunted," Megan sighed, tugging at his coat and stalking off.
"Bye, Death Seeker," he called out merrily behind him, earning an strange look from Megan before shaking her head and walking off, Waunted right behind her.
"Hello? Who are you?"
The once cyan Skydancer opened his eyes to see a shimmering, ever-darkening appearance before him. The poor thing looked terrified. Whether is was death or Waunted that scared her, he didn't know.
"Who are you?" she squeaked again.
"I'm Waunted," he tried saying as softly as he could, "I'm here to help you."
"Why are you in my head? How did you get here? What--"
"Easy, Dream. Just... take it easy."
"How do you know my name?" she cried, her terror audible in her voice.
"He's a Soul Seeker, my dear. He protects souls and keeps them safe." A shudder ran through Waunted as the voice said what he did, and only one voice could've done that.
"Brimstone!" Waunted called out to another dimly floating mass. "I thought you were dead."
"I was, but now I'm the voice that you so magically called Helpful-But-Not-Helpful, Emperor."
"Sorry," Waunted muttered woefully. Wait, he thought to himself. Emperor?
Ask later, Brimstone replied telepathically.
Dream was still whimpering and dimming by the time Brimstone's and Waunted's conversation had ended. Her eyes were wide for her small face, her mouth trembling and showing glimpses of small, white teeth. Her head and neck was covered in little patches of glistening Opal that would've shone starkly in the darkness had she not been dying.
"I'm scared..." Dream cried.
"I know," Waunted whispered, nearing her. "I know, Dream, but we're here to help you."
"You may want to hurry up with that, boy," Brimstone said. "A few more bells and she may be dead before you can do anything."
"How can I help her, Brim?" Woe and fear mixed into his confidence, which was already on the edge.
"You can half your soul, trick the Death Seekers into thinking she's meant to be alive. But hurry!"
And so Waunted did, with Brimstone's help.
The last sunlight of the day was still bright enough to burn the Skydancer's delicate eyelids and make him bury his head in the "dirt" he'd fallen to when he smashed the Soul Seeker bottle. He glanced to the foot of the bed and saw a thurible with a faint glow on the inside. Dream.
He sat up with a start. Have I failed?
The room he was in suggested it to be a one-dragon treatment room, but that did little to relax him. The cover beneath him was crumpled from where he buried his face into it, thinking it was dirt. Around him were more Deities-damned cushions and blankets and a note on the bedside table with the Shadowbinder's sigil on the front. Waunted moved to pick it up and read it:
"To Waunted, Soul Seeker N.24;
You asked about why dear Brimstone, a lovely friend of mine, called you 'Emperor'. Do you remember seeing a red Imperial, also called Waunted? He was YOU, my friend. You were suffering from a broken and stoned heart, bless your soul. I thought I'd give you another chance as a Soul Seeker so you could find peace. In your past life, you were frantic. Deceiving. You treated dragons horribly. In this life, your aim is to be nicer. Kinder. Friendlier. This also explains how and why you already knew so much about your clan, does it not?
Please don't mess this up, Waunted. This is your last chance at redemption. I can't resurrect you again.
-Shadowbinder."
Waunted's breathing caught in his throat as he scanned the message a second time. A third, then a fourth. That Imperial was me? How?
He heard the door click open and jumped in his skin. The two Bogsneaks he had recently been acquainted with stood before the door. They both looked dishevelled and bedraggled, dirty and tired. He felt a pang of sympathy and a grip of embarrassment for the two. They could've left me behind, he thought, but they brought me here. Back home.
"So," Megan began with a crooked eyebrow raised, "you're our good old friend the Emperor." It wasn't a question.
Waunted could only nod, not bearing to meet their eyes. He had hurt these two badly. Scarred them, even. He could even see one of his own attacks on Jackson's body in the corner of his eye. It was where his neck and shoulder met, and it was a gruesome thing. It ran white against his golden, shining body - a toothy mark that would've gushed for days. Oh, sweet Deities, he thought dimly. I did this to them.
"It doesn't exactly explain how you know the First language, but--"
"My father knew. It ran down in the family for centuries," Waunted said, catching Jackson off-guard.
"Right," he replied with a grunt. "As I was saying, it explains the Death Seeker that's been following you around. Poor thing is a bit confused. Oh, Dream also sends her gratitude." 'As if you deserve it' was what didn't need to be said.
"I'm sorry," Waunted said, a large lump in his throat and his eyes burning from unshed and unfelt despair at what he'd done.
The Bogsneaks stopped their observing and stared at him as if he were an alien. "Sorry?" they asking in unison.
"Yes," he whimpered. "I'm sorry for everything. The hurt, the pain, the..." He turned to stare at the scar on Jackson's neck before continuing, "...scars. I know 'I'm sorry' won't change the past, but I'm willing to make up for it."
His vision swelled and turned and blurred, but he didn't feel embarrassed as he let the tears fall. He willed the couple to forgive him. To understand.
Silence and consideration fell between them all, the only sound being Waunted's sadness pouring out onto the floor in water droplets. He closed his eyes and waited for what felt like hours. Maybe even days.
"What have you done with the real Emperor?" Megan asked mockingly, her voice stitched together with sarcasm and lightness. "You know, the one that always growled and waved his verbal came at every passerby to stay off his lawn?"
"We forgive you," Jackson translated to Waunted's relief.
The Skydancer could only laugh giddily at the relief he felt. Tears continued to fall, but he didn't care. All he cared about was his promise;
"I'll be better than I was yesterday, Shadowbinder."
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