Maeva » Hibernal Den » Jack

Jack

(#63241946)

Level 1 Imperial

Familiar

Which Waychip

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Apparel

Skin

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

23.64 m

Wingspan

18.52 m

Weight

6967.04 kg

Genetics

Blood
Vipera

Sanguine
Peregrine

Chocolate
Thylacine

Hatchday

Aug 12, 2020
(3 years)

Breed

Adult
Imperial

Eye Type

Lightning
Common

Level 1 Imperial

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

none

Biography

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T H E M E
J A C K
tomorrow, my master chokes on his own whip

It all was a long time ago, and it doesn't matter anymore.
Who his mother was, what name his clan bore, how many of their warriors were killed - trapped between the blood-soaked fanatics and the white-gold strangers. He was a boy back then, so he was spared, found, brought to the woman. She wasn't gold, but iron, rust and smoke. She taught him to hold a hammer before she taught him their language. Stern, unforgiving. But good too.
- That won't fly here, kid. Jack is a nice name. Stick to it.

All was easy at first.
Bring the coal, put the brick in, turn the wheel, push the lever, wait. Wait. Turn the wheel, pour the metal, don't breathe too deep when water hits it. Bring it to her... no, put it close to that fire. Fire first, until it red, then bring it - the scars are reminders of how careful he needs to be. A nod, that's all he gets. And it's better than chains.
Beckett was the one to save him from the dreaded digging site. She needed another pair of hands with the machine, she said to the amrored strangers, and they let her take him. For a few years, that was all he knew: burning coal and liquid metal. He never wore the heavy bracelets, but the lady with a whip insisted on the pendant - and the brand, shorty after. Another ornament, like others he had on his skin: marks of his clan, his bloodline, and now his masters too. Beckett said he could be a good blacksmith, when she's done with him. Maybe he will be the one to hire her one day.
He knows she's lying.

Another dozen is lost. He saw the bodies being carried out and behind. The whip lady told Beckett to let him go, because they were short on diggers.
- I don't care about the machine, Beckett. If you don't want him to dig, you are free to take his place.
He was afraid, terrified even. He had seen it, the site, the people there... But it's never his choice. Minutes later Jack was climbing down, into the half-collapsed tunnels.

It's hell.
It's hell, but he's not dead, no matter how badly he wants it. He's burning, his strained muscles are aching, throbbing with pain, and his tongue is dry and he can't open his mouth, because it hurts and bleeds. So every time he coughs, blood splatters, and the stones below absorb the crimson stains like dry earth would. Just don't stop, or the lady will notice. That's what Beckett told him. Don't look at the lady, don't resist, don't speak, be quiet, and if you're down - curl up and protect the weak points. She knew, didn't she? Others hate him here, the new boy, the favorite. So every time he's down, he does just like Beckett said. Endure and withstand.
Time is lost on him. Sometimes he works nights, sometimes days. Sometimes he's injured, and taken to the doctor, and he's always embarrassed. The doctor is beautiful, the kind of beauty Jack never saw before: pale and light, and elegant, and golden, and his eyes are warm. And there is Jack the blacksmith apprentice, the digger, the owned. Surely, the kind doctor must be disgusted, so why does he keep bringing him food when the guards aren't looking?

One day they aren't escorted to the excavation.
A guard told them to wait in their tent, and hours later the lady came and took half of the workers with her. All those who remained were ordered to rest and were given food and water for the day. Jack was too exhausted to care, but the others were too scared to beat him up. At least that was good. At dusk, Beckett came to take him back. The nightmare was over.
He don't know the reason they stopped digging, but he was glad to work as master's helper again - until Beckett said it's time to move. Move? Where? The desert is all he knows, it's familiar, it's home... But it's never his choice.
Beckett said not to worry. She taught him to read her language, and he read about the cities once, and it sounds too crazy to be true. But now he will see one, and it feels somehow wrong, like he wasn't supposed to. No other worker travels back with them, Jack is the only one with the pendant and the mark. When the desert ended and dry earth gave way to steppe and its tall yellow grass, he's terrified. It's all new, and alien. The air itself feels different, and one time it rained for hours. He didn't understand then why the caravan didn’t stop and store water, but a day later he saw the reason - smelled and heard it first, in fact. A wide river, full of fish, surrounded by green, mellow grass. They spent the night near it, and Beckett sent him to go take a dip with the guards and servants, to wash that desert dust off. When Jack asks why isn't she going with them, she calls him an uncivilized animal.
Sometimes she's just irrational.

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Beckett was right, the city is wonderful.
Jack had never seen so many people before, and those buildings were taller than statues the clans had. The colours, the sounds, too much of everything, and is was only a small part of it: Beckett led him directly to her house. High ceilings, many windows - but still scary, like in a cave, or in the tunnels. Her shop was much better equipped than that small tent from the camp. Half of the tools she had displayed on the walls he couldn't recognize. He was eager to learn.

Beckett was wrong, the city is cruel.
Much worse than the desert, in fact. Back home, you had to be afraid of beasts. Here, the beasts wore velvety clothes. They smiled and offer one hand, but struck with the other. They dress in bright colours, like poisonous insects. Sometimes they spit on him, too, and this he can take - at least those are honest, like snakes. But the most dangerous are like vines - you won't notice them smothering you while they talk their honeyed, venomous words, and their eyes are hungry and blind.
Jack wants to go home, to clans, but the war is over, and there's no more clans. Some people here call him a cultist, and he still don't understand - and has no desire to try. He's tired and scared. He can't be at Beckett's house all the time, because it's so confined and unnatural, but he can't go outside too, because people there hate him. Master needs her tasks done as well, and sometimes Jack has to go, to buy or deliver. He know the roads, he made a map, so he won't have to ask the beats: they lie.
Above all other things, he's afraid of the Iron Feather.

Just cling to the shadows, and all will be fine.
Tap.
Jack delivered the box already, heavy and locked, to the woman who was a bit too polite. She offered him dinner and wine, but he refused: another animal, luring its prey into the den. Her smile was too sincere, like she practiced it for centuries. She was experienced. The worst kind of beasts.
Tap, tap, tap.
No, he just needs to make it back. It's always so dark in Feather, the light of day haven't touched the district in years. It's abnormal, and it shouldn't be like this. Some say the myths and legends are true, and the ancient predators live here, drinking blood of any poor soul foolish enough to walk their territory. He doesn't know what to make of it, but he's always scared to go through the alleys anyways. Even if he's completely alone - because it feels unnatural, to be in the city with so many people, but not see a single soul for hours.
Tap, tap, tap.
Beckett said it's possible for him to move, she knows the steppe folk, and he would like it there: people are honest and nature is beautiful. But first he needs to pay Raksha, if he doesn't want to have a master anymore. Beckett will give him a little bit more gold fr-
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
]Deep in his thoughts, Jack did not hear the sound of the metal cane on the pavement, until it was too late. One sharp blow knocks him off his feet. Another knocks the breath out of him.
Curl up. Protect the weak points. Be quiet. Endure.
A whirlwind of blows, thrusts with the sharp end of the cane make it almost impossible to stay curled up. Jack can feel the cold metal piercing the flesh between his ribs. Endure. The beast's rage equals only its strength, relentless in its fury. Each kick, each strike is precise, aimed, to make it as painful as possible. Endure.
When Jack thinks he can't take it anymore, the beast stops. But instead of walking away or finishing him off, it moves closer, kneels down, puts the cane on the paving. Its voice is a hiss, hot and sweet on Jack's neck.
- You don't belong here, cultist filth.
It lets out a small breathy laugh, as it grabs Jack's coat. Its eyes are blind with hunger, dark and lifeless.
- Should've known your place.
Its hands are cold on his skin when it chokes him, and its breath is shaky.
- Pathetic. Wretched. Miserable creature.
Just don't resist, don't struggle. Endure.
Finally, it bites him, and fangs are sharp as beasts would be. Exhales and chuckles, and bites again. Still holding one hand on his neck, with the other hand it reaches somewhere to the side. Jack finally can breath a little, barely enough to not lose consciousness. It will let him go now, he endured enough.
Metal briefly clinks against the stone, as it takes the cane in its free hand. Holds it up so Jack could see, runs the razor-sharp tip down his chest-
- Worthless.
The metal is cold. He can't endure any longer, can't be quiet anymore. He cries out, and sobs, and the world goes black.

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