People like to invent Monsters and Monstrosities. Then they seem less Monstrous themselves
Winter has no place amidst the sand and heat of the Mors Desert. Its frigid fingers are kept in check by the arid winds, their warmth ushering the chill back North where it belongs. It is this bold stand against the cycle of seasons – a powerful and steadfast tradition unused to such defiance – that inspires the former slave to press on. He cannot allow doubt or uncertainty to snuff out his hope so soon after finding it. He controls his destiny, now, and there isn’t a force in the world that can stop him from wielding his hard-fought freedom as a tool to rekindle the past.
His eyes squint against the light as he scans the desert, searching for figures as well as any place where he can forage for food. Scarcely any plants can be seen upon the dunes, but the occasional spiked cactus or grass patch proves it is possible for life to exist here.
A band of ravagers could flourish, even.
Davke.
The sun beats down upon Jhion’s back, strong as a thousand lashes despite the season. It is cruel and unrelenting, yet he finds himself reveling in the intense heat of its rays. They remind him of the devastation of House Sodhara, of the fire he ushered to spill from his forge and pick his Master’s bones clean.
As he gallops across the desert, his head full of thoughts of death and his heart so full of hope, the sound of his hooves against the sand morphs into the crackle of a fire and hoarse cries for help. The memories take hold of him, returning him to the gilded halls of House Sodhara and his life within them before they, too, crumbled and burned.
The smell of smoke and molten steel fills the small room where the slave lives and works. Normally he is allowed to leave the smithy -- so as long as his work is done -- but the Masters have confined him to his quarters tonight. Which can only mean one thing. Visitors.
He is not permitted to be seen whenever a guest arrives in House Sodhara, and he has the scars to remind him of such a harsh rule. Though the reason for it has never been explained, the branded smith has surmised that his existence isn't exactly legal. Not that it matters, for the laws of the Day Court have never been in Jhion's favor. He was enslaved as a child when the law allowed it, and his oppression continues even under new rule. It appears that abolishing slavery is not as simple as rewriting old texts or threatening harsh punishment. At least, not with an arrogant ruler like Taldan who thinks he can get away with it if his slave is kept hidden.
His eyes reflect the glare of the flames and his soul absorbs their heat, using it to fester and shape itself into a weapon he can use to make his oppressors fall. The branded smith has had enough of forging blades for others; now it is time to forge one for himself.
The metallic clang of the hammer matches the beat of the smith's heart.
Clang. thud. Clang clang. thud thud.
He grasps the hammered steel in his tongs and thrusts it into the furnace, watching as it shifts colors and settles into an angry red glow. Sweat drips from his face as he stares at the metal, waiting for it to come to temperature, but he is interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open.
"What do you think you're doing? Show our guest some respect!"
Taldan's voice is as grating as ever, accentuated by the wine he has surely been drinking. Jhion only knows this because of the fruity smell of his breath as he screams in the slave's face.
"Listen to your Master, boy! He’ll be having none of that!"
This voice is gruffer, sterner, and if he could see past his Master’s drooling maw he would have been able to see the blow before it landed. It catches him across his flank, winding the slave and forcing him to the ground to catch his breath.
"That’s better, isn’t it? You were clearly too soft on him, Taldan. I always told you his kind needed a heavy hand. Heh, shoulda told Zolin, too."
"Yes, well, we took Jhion as a boy, and he was nowhere near as fierce as that vixen he-"
"A sandrat is a sandrat! You know as well as I do how dangerous the Davke are, or have you forgotten that, Taldan? I don’t care if you took him as a boy, the desert still runs in his blood."
Jhion peers up at the heavy stallion when he takes a swig from his bottle, returning his gaze to the floor immediately afterwards. It isn’t the first he has heard of the Davke, but he’s never heard of them in reference to himself. His heart hammers at the thought. Can I really be Davke? He’s listened in on conversations between Taldan and his guests before, learning of the Day Court, its histories and traditions, and, if he’s lucky, of the wild band that once plagued the desert. He enjoys listening to these stories the most, often staying up far too late to hear one last gruesome detail of the vicious raiders’ exploits – though he has also heard news of their downfall. Taldan speaks of them as if they are vermin that needed to be exterminated, but Jhion finds himself yearning to be as bold and as fierce as the ghosts that haunt the sands.
My ancestors, he thinks. He glances at the red-hot blade waiting patiently in the furnace as the conversation continues.
"Give me some of that. What are we here for anyway?"
"I wanted to see one of the last remaining Davke, poor sight as he is." There is a spitting sound, and the slave doesn’t flinch when a wad of phlegm splatters against his cheek. "We feared your kind, once. Can you believe that? You lot hunted us down, tracked our caravans, and slaughtered us. Now look at you. Disgusting. If you were half as fierce as that sand bitch of Zolin’s, you’d at least have tried to escape by now. Instead, you work the bellows like a good boy, you pathetic wea-"
He doesn’t get the chance to finish. Not with the molten hot steel protruding from his head. Blood bubbles out of the brute’s maw as if to help him get the words out.<
"I’ve heard enough." His voice is remarkably calm for a man that quivers like a hungry flame. It’s as if his skin can no longer contain the rage that was building up beneath it.
The slave frees the half-smelted sword with a quick downward thrust, redirecting his fiery gaze to Taldan’s trembling figure. The Master’s eyes are glued to his companion’s exsanguinated form, his lips quivering as if they’re trying to speak but can no longer find the words. Jhion wonders if this is what it means to be Davke: to make your foes quiver and beg for a swift death. And to deny them of that right.
"Was he speaking the truth?" Jhion blocks the path to the door, closing it with one foot.
"W-wh-wha-t-t-t…. Oh, oh, y-you’re not g-going t-to k-kill me?"
For such a regal figure, it now seems Taldan lacks the eloquence expected of a man of his station. The slave would find it ironic if not for the pounding in his chest, his heart seeming to chant kill kill kill! in place of its normal beat. He does not dignify the question.
"Y-yes, w-we took you in the last raid… It w-wasn’t my choice! You have to bel-"
The small space makes it convenient for him to guide the blade between targets, slipping out from one mandible and into another in one fluid motion. There are no last words or witty remarks; Jhion has nothing to say to the brute that stole, beat and branded him. He owes him nothing for the life he got to waste within these halls. And speaking of which…
He approaches the furnace, his expression softening as he looks upon its seemingly eternal flame. If there is one thing the stallion will miss, it will be the forge and his tools. They were a small comfort to him during his service, and he was fortunate to have been able to practice a craft rather than waste away elsewhere. He is thankful for that, at least.
With a rush of motion the former slave rears up, striking his hooves against the forge to free the fire within it.
Even with the desert air diluting the acrid stench of burnt flesh and ash, it persists like the brands emblazoned upon his skin. He isn’t sure that he’ll ever forget the burnt remains of Taldan’s corpse beneath his feet – or the festering rage that had finally driven him to take the man’s life.
The prospect of sparing the great House does not dare to disturb the wrathful dunes of his mind. The sun’s fury suddenly seems much tamer than his own.
Though his legs are weary from his frantic galloping and his brands burn anew, rekindled by the sun, he will not stop until he has been reunited with the family he was taken from.
@Avdotya I told you it was gonna be long XD I'm so sorry!
