The glorious city that he once knew, glistening with gold among the burning sands, was gone. His people, vibrant and clever as they had been, proved to be no match for each other, or the war that they had bred between themselves. Paranoia and deceit raged among them, those who were once only meant to be artisans and nobles, until there was only one left; one who had no title or appetite for power. Being the last, he found himself in need of a purpose—he surely couldn’t rebuild his people’s numbers or his homeland by himself. Such a wish was a foolish dream, and even though his ancestors before him proved they could fly, he knew that even though he carried their blood, he couldn’t achieve such a goal.
The scarce individuals of other kinds that encountered him called him Stranger, as a silly term of endearment, as he didn’t speak their language well enough to shape his name in their sharp words. They shied away from his dusty red cloak, worn by the sand and sun; they avoided his eyes, which were hidden behind the wooden visor used to protect them; they scattered at his arrival, like roaches to light, when they saw that his feet did not touch the ground, as though he were gliding on the very wind that battered against the sands. He was strange to these simpler humans. He was new. Exotic. He was everything one of their race wanted to see at least once in their life, but he was also everything they were taught to be afraid of. Stranger didn't mind their apprehension, as that only allowed for him to pass through peacefully. Though there were some, however, like the Jawn-Man—who was large and brawny and tense—who stopped him with a vile grin on his face. He placed a big hand on Stranger's slender shoulder and forced his feet back to the ground, leaning down into his face.
"Here I thought you was some ghost." Ghost? Stranger was no ghost—he was a lone птица, a word that did not translate well into this man’s language; though, compared to the speech of others that he had met, it seemed that Jawn did not have a firm grasp of his language as well. He poked and prodded at Stranger's cape, tugging at the woven fabric that glowed with gold, illustrating depictions of cities and people and ruins upon touch. Jawn scowled, as men did; he did not seem to be a fan of such flashy things. Stranger tried not to let it weigh too heavily on his mind.
"I know ye." The brute snarled, and Stranger knew him, as well: Jawn was spoken of none too fondly in many towns; he was dubbed a slaver, a horrible man with greed running in his blood, and though many a kind citizen warned Stranger to steer clear of Jawn's territory, Stranger knew that he had no choice in the matter. His path went straight through his gang’s area, and going around it simply took too long. So here he was, being sneered at by Jawn and his not so jolly gang of thugs. Stranger chirped a response to the slaver, meant to be an explanation of his being here, and pushed the man's great, meaty hand off of him. The man only grinned as he watched the птица take to the lower air, magic not yet strong enough to achieve full flight. It was an obvious defensive maneuver, and Stranger chided himself quietly for having it be so.
"Oh yes, I know ye quite well. Yer one of the desert fellows, ain't ya? The floaty kind." Stranger rolled his eyes, clearly impressed by the man's cleverness. "Yer a rare one, ya know. People'd be lucky to see ya floatin' 'round on the dunes, let alone up close. I hear ya clothes sell well. I hear yer meat sells for twice as much." The small, thin feathers on Stranger's forearms rose, and suddenly he was quite thankful for his visor and scarf to hide his expression of unadulterated disgust. A slaver, but now a butcher as well? His clan must be ever so proud.
Stranger hovered a few feet away from the man, arms parting his cape down the middle and being held out at his sides, as though he's just performed a sweeping bow and was waiting in that final transition of movement. From his throat, he emitted a small and low growl that rumbled the space between him and Jawn. To his discontent, one of his men laughed.
"'E's like a lil' parakeet bird!" He then started a round of whistles and tweets that the other men quickly joined into, while Jawn laughed and laughed. Stranger, foreign to this behavior, felt anger bubble in his chest and up into his throat, which erupted from his lips as a loud caw that shook the small space of the alleyway that Jawn had trapped him in. The mocking-bird tweets and whistles stopped in an instant, and silence fell heavy and hard around the gang. No. No. Stranger would not be treated this way, he wouldn't allow it—he was singular, yes, but proud through his loneliness. His people were a great, mythical thing to these men, and he swore to his ancestors that he was going to act that way.
The men, he knew, were not prepared for an angry птица. They were prepared for an easy capture, an easy target. Stranger could smell it on them, the now brewing fear that Jawn had lead them into a fight that they weren't ready to win. They had heard legends, surely, of his people—a force of nature so strong that they eventually tore themselves apart, leaving only their ruins only deep under ever-shifting sand. They knew the fury of myths, these slavers. They knew, and now they were faltering upon their purpose. Jawn knew as well, however, but he knew another thing.
He knew that Stranger's pose, his growling and loud caw, were all a bluff.
With a quick snap of his fingers, the men pounced from silence into action, tearing Stranger down into the ground. They pinned his arms with shouts of, "They can't do magic without their hands!" and pressed him into the dirt, where Stranger could feel his ribcage begin to bend under the weight of the thugs. Visor now skewed from his eyes, he could only peek at Jawn's feet as he approached, calmly and mightily, like a lion watching his pride take down his sought after prey. He took knee before the птица, admiring his catch as he pulled Stranger's hood away. His lips twisted into that vile smile as he saw the dandelion puff of messy black hair, the sharp features that defined his face, and the wide, eagle-like eyes hiding behind the visor. Jawn knew, all in a flash, that he would grow to hate that face.
"Take the poor bastard to the caravan. Without a fight, thank ya." And with those words, a foul-smelling cloth was slipped over his nose and mouth. Within minutes, Stranger found himself plummeting into a deep, dark sleep.
Through the vapors of foul smelling cloth, the first thing Stranger's mind produced for him were white hot and golden sands. It recreated the towering temples and the familiar cobbled streets, the ringing in his ears that told him his people were singing their history to all around him. His people, voices strong and lilting, were together. The war had not started yet, for there were still vendors who handed out flowers instead of daggers and poison, and such a thought tore at Stranger's heart relentlessly. Peace. That was what he was looking for. Peace. That’s what he was looking for. Peace of mind, soul, and body, for being alone was a tiresome business and not one that he wanted to face. Not like this, not with memories of the people that he once knew or the sound of their singing turning into cries and pleads of help. He didn't want to live in a body where he remembered these things. Around him, the vapor-induced city sank into the sand, the singing cutting off into silence. Stranger would almost chuckle, were this not a dream, at how bloody ironic his mind could be.
When Stranger awoke—feeling horribly groggy and, in a broader sense, all-around horrible—he found himself unable to stretch his weary limbs or sit up fully at all. Stranger was never a fan of small, tight spaces; but here he was, in a small, tight cage that seemed more akin to a ribcage of some mighty beast that had swallowed him whole than iron bars. Though he hated it, he gave out soft, pitiful peeps from his spot in the back of what he could only guess was Jawn's caravan, calling out for help in vain. The only ones who could hear him was Jawn and his thugs, who pounded on the wooden exterior to shut him up. After a moment of subdued silence, Stranger heard the thugs begin to mutter amongst themselves like gossiping old women. Utterances of a warehouse and a slaughter house were punctuated with cruel laughs, while the prospect of money occasionally gave rise to giggles and sounds of glee. How much would his boots cost?, they’d wonder out loud. What about his cloak? His visor? His clothes? His skin? The fact that they were so openly gleeful about skinning another being caused Stranger’s heart to sink low into his chest, weighted down by the thoughts of his skin gracing someone’s floor as a rug, his meat roasting on an open fire…
Ugh.
They arrived at the warehouse in almost no time, and fear already had a firm hold on Stranger's heart. As the thugs opened the back of the caravan and grabbed at the bars of Stranger's cage to wiggle him out, he unleashed a hellish screech and began thrashing about in his tiny prison like any animal might—and in that moment of desperation, he surely was little more than a beast. He couldn't even relish in the shocked yelps of the ruffians before Jawn had pushed his way through the crowd and poked a stick into the cage and onto Stranger's chest, a tool that cut his screech off into a pain-filled scream. Jawn grinned, pulling the stick out and brandishing it at the boys like a mighty sword.
"Cattle prod," He proclaimed proudly, as though electrocuting a terrified and desperate animal into whimpers and near sobs were some great achievement, "Tweetie'll be quiet now, jus' ya see." Hesitantly, his men reached for the cage again, and watched as their captive, with electricity still coursing through his veins, lay silent and still. They all breathed a collective sigh of relief and lifted the cage from the caravan and into the warehouse.
It was an illusion, this warehouse; what looked like a large country mansion surrounded by woodland and fields held much darker deceptions. This was Jawn's home, on "loan" to him from a relative. Here, Stranger knew from rumours, Jawn ran his shady business of slave trade. From humans to exotic beasts, anything and anyone within Jawn's grasp was fair game. He sold anything people wanted--furs, clothes, organs, entertaining beasts, entertaining people, the sick, the poor, the lovely, the gruesome. Anything to get even the smallest bit of coin. It was a shame, really. The mansion was a giant, beautiful, and ancient thing, complete with ivy growing up the walls, large scenic windows, and wrought iron gates. It was wasted on Jawn and his bawdy crew.
They brought the cage into the large living room, where they set Stranger down and where one thug took to playing with Stranger's foot, which the птица, though subdued and exhausted, did not find so amusing.
"What do we do wif him, Bawss?" A thug had finally spoken up, asking what everyone around him was thinking. Even the one playing with Stranger stopped his little game to stare up at his leader with an unsettling hunger in his eyes. Jawn tutted, moving to push aside a bookcase and revealing a long, stone corridor lit with torches.
"I've gone an' spoken wit' a client. 'E says 'e wants to check out the little bastard before anythin's done wit' 'em. Comin' in five days. Say 'e'll pay 'andsomely if it's in good condition." Five days. A shiver ran down Stranger's spine at the thought—five days was not a terrible amount of time to escape. Five days was no doubt doable, but it was just as equally impossible. Thoughts of warm sand and golden stone buildings seemed only to be his mind's taunt to him now as the gang lifted his cage once again to carry him off into the torch-lit hall. Jawn's happy whistles pervaded the tiny hall and bounced off the walls, making it seem as though there were thousands of him, millions, all whistling in glee at his newest catch and the bag of money he was sure to bring. The hall eventually opened up into a row of cells, all of which were filled with creatures of varying sorts--a man reached out for a thug's pantleg, who's hand was promptly stepped on (Stranger tried not to think of the sickening crunch the man's hand had made); there was a too-small tank in which several merpeople were tangled up in, some pressed against the glass in uncomfortable positions with no room to move; then, most horribly, there was a once proud griffon creature, now muzzled and chained and rotting under dirty stone instead of clear sky simply because one of the thugs had been too lazy to drag the sorry creature out.
Stranger found himself staring at the griffon—soon, he knew, he would be just the same.
They set him in a cell and rattled him out of his cage as though he were an indignant cat being pried from one of it's favourite hiding places. With a padlock slapped on the cell door and a turn of the key, Stranger was trapped, from one cage to another. Jawn stepped back from the bars to admire his handywork, grinning at the exhausted pile of cloth and whittling magic with all the barely contained giddyness of a five year old.
"Shouldn't we chain him up too, Bawss?"
"No need. Pet's too young ta 'ave magic like in legends. 'E won't be a problem at all."
Stranger figured that he must have fallen asleep at some point, for the next thing he remembered apart from Jawn closing and locking his cell door was awaking to the dead silence that filled up every corner of the hall. Very bones aching from his /electric/ welcome, he gathered himself up to peer out from between the bars of his cell. The hall seemed endless, each wall lined with cramped cells in which every creature inside curled into themselves, too afraid to reach out or cry for help. No. No, this wouldn't do at all--already, the magic in Stranger's very being vibrated at the thought of being trapped and sold like an unfeeling piece of property. Stranger allowed the air to lift him up and carry his weight as he ascended to the ceiling, hands pressing gently against it, testing it, applying pressure to the stones as though expecting it to give way. It didn't.
"It's a sweet idea to try, love." Stranger whirled and already began fluffing himself up before he even saw who spoke to him, though when their eyes connected, his mind seemed to slam to a stop. She seemed to be some sort of lovely flower maiden, having the body of a woman from the hips up and, where her legs would be, a giant flower engulfed her. Her face framed a look of ditzy sweetness that was perhaps held in the way her pouty lips smiled ever so softly, or perhaps in the way that her eyes were half-lidded with ease as she gazed upon him. Four large and thorny vines sprouted from underneath her petals to serve as dangerous legs, and Stranger couldn't help but to notice that she gave off a remarkably sweet fragrance that was not stunted by the reek of damp and close walls of the hall. She sat against the bars of the cell opposite of his, and though she seemed to mean nothing more than kindness, he still let out a low growl at her.
"Oh, please don't be like that! It does neither of us use to be fickle and angry with each other." She reached a hand through the bars as though to shake his hand, and attempted as much as a smile as one could when they're in a hellhole. "I'm Rosey. It's, ah, sort of a self explanatory name, really."
Strange. She looked like she was more of a Tulip, really.
Stranger chirped a meek response, drifting away from the bars as he assessed the creature. Her human torso was bare (for who needed clothes in a dungeon?), her long red hair providing a sort of clever censorship of her breasts. She seemed kind and gentle enough, and with a primal sort of hesitation, he touched back down to the cool stone, giving a curt nod to her. Rosey's face erupted into brightness as her smile evolved into a full-out grin. Stranger found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of leaves and rain-soaked soil.
"That's just lovely, dear."
Rosey, as Stranger soon began to learn, had lived near a cathedral and often sneaked to one of its large, stained windows to listen to their heavenly voices, which she often remarked was very much like Stranger's own voice. From a young age, she was separated from her family during a harsh winter, where she had eventually settled down in the churches gardens. No one suspected a thing, which was something she’d regularly and gleefully exclaim. She was quite happy living in hiding, until a Preacher had spotted her peeking and panicked; she soon found herself unable to enjoy what she loved most--music--as the preacher soon caused a huge ruckus and attracted Jawn's attention.
"I was captured during the night," she'd reflect upon him, eyes glazing over as she got lost in her own memories (which was a frequent activity for her), “While I was trying to sleep in a bed of soil, hidden behind the largest rose bushes I could find. I thought I was safe, you know? Obviously I wasn’t, for when Jawn threw his net over me, I was certain he was nothing but a bad dream, a nightmare that my mind had conjured up for me to fear.” She would sigh then, leaning up against the bars of her prison wistfully and it was usually there that she would stop her story. That’s all Stranger really knew of her—just her love of music and her uncanny ability to see the brighter things in such dark situations. She often regaled him with small tidbits of songs and soft reassurances that, yes, they would escape no matter what. Stranger always took her outlook for granted and thought that even if the client game on the fifth day, he would have at least known Rosey, and he would’ve been grateful for her loving and bright presence. She made his days and nights bearable, and there was the odd comfort that, if he were to be sold for labour or for meat, he'd be ready.
However, no matter what comfort Rosey gave to him, Stranger never quite believed her promises of freedom. That is, not until the fire that had erupted on the night of the fourth day.
Panic spread rapidly between the prisoners and Jawn's boys as the slavers struggled to put out the grease fire that had swallowed the main room of the mansion, its flames slowly licking at the stone hallway that separated the room and the hall of cells. Stranger, already choking on smoke that filled the room and smothered all air, was screeching in his desperation, once again reduced to animal instincts. No, no! It couldn't end like this, not after waiting for so long and having met Rosey and gotten to know her—this was a cruel trick of fate that held the птица around the neck like a noose. He let out a loud scream in his frustration, tears gathering in his eyes; not like this. Please, Ancestors, anything but this.
As though hearing Stranger's internal pleas, Jawn burst from the flame to grab at the rapidly heating bars of Stranger's cell, soot-covered face contorted into anger and disgust. With a swift flick of his wrist, the padlock fell to the stone floor with an echoing clank that stilled everyone in the hall. Within seconds, Jawn's large and meaty hands were closing in on Stranger's neck, closing off his windpipe and causing the птица to resort to terrified squeaks that begged for air. Jawn, however, did not relent.
"Ya sonovabitch! Did ya not think that I would find out?" Were there ever a picture perfect image of red-faced, unbridled, spit-filled anger, Jawn was certainly it. He throttled Stranger, shook his body back and forth, watched him as his eyes bulged and his face began to turn faint shades of blue. "The lantern was above yer cage, ya scum, ya must've thrown it off wit' yer fancy desert magic, ya no good, sand-swallowing, blighting blistering bastard of a bi—"
Jawn was jerked back in mid-throttle, his hands leaving Strangers neck and leaping to his own; for around it now was a thick vine covered in razor sharp thorns that was tightening and sinking deeper into the fatty flesh of the slaver's neck. Even with his vision blurred, Stranger could see Rosey pressed as close as she could to the sweltering bars, ignoring the burn of the iron as she began to drag the struggling man closer to her. She looked up to Stranger, smile weak but still shining through the smoke. There was a waver in her voice that Stranger found so foreign and frightening that he found himself favouring the all-consuming fire than the horror of hearing her voice falter.
"Go on, Love. Don't you dare let my distraction go to waste—gather everyone and get out." Stranger hesitated, heart ceasing its pounding in his chest at her words. Only the sound of Jawn's choked curses and thrashing filled the space between them. After a seemingly endless sickening moment (which was really only seconds), Stranger gave out a low and questioning churr, stepping closer to her cell. Nearer now, he could easily see that her smile was slowly becoming more and more forced as she allowed herself to breathe in the acrid smoke, and that there were pale green chloroform tears running down her cheeks.
"Please," she muttered, composure quietly breaking, "Be free, Love. For the both of us. Please." She gave another forced smile as she tried to keep her lip from quivering too much, her shoulders shaking as her skin began to sizzle from the contact with the metal bars. "Go, you stupid boy, GO!"
Startled into action, Stranger willed himself to hover above the growing flames as he plucked the keys that Jawn had dropped upon his eruption, and shepherded the prisoners out, the able bodied helping the wounded and the merfolk, to which many had paid special attention to cover their gills as to not be forced to breathe in the smoke. After a quick check of every cell, it seemed quite apparent that only Jawn, Rosey, and Stranger were left in the burning corridor. Rosey herself, as brave as she was, couldn't help but to stifle a whimper as the flames lapped at her delicate leaves and petals.
"Thank you, Love." She whispered, hands now covering the slaver's nose and mouth to help him along towards his death as her vines seemed not to do the ugly job fast enough, "Please live. No matter what, please live. If not for yourself, than for me." Another smile, this one warm and desperate and painful as the flames climbed further and further up her body and crawled over Jawn's legs. "Now go, hon. Don't worry about me."
Hit with the sudden realization that Rosey fully intended to die in her cell with the slaver that had caused her so much pain, Stranger couldn't help but depart one of the most sacred bits of information to Rosey as heart-felt "thank you", though it nearly tore his heart out to do it. He leaned close to the bars, feeling the heat coming off the metal in waves, and in some confusion, Rosey leaned forward as well, bending an ear to him.
He told dear, lovely Rosey his name--"Pouli." He whispered to her in the language that he had learned solely from listening to her, in the language that only days before had he found too sharp and confusing to form much of anything in.
He watched helplessly as the smell of burning earth begin to fill the hall and as Rosey's lovely face, now charred and cracked and twisted in unbearable pain, was frozen in one last smile.
Most of the prisoners had escaped with nary a scratch on them, and many thanked Stranger for his bravery and kindness that he felt that he didn't deserve. After giving a few soft peeps of what many took were modest "you're welcomes", the птица left the newly freed people to their own business, only to float off into the open fields that surrounded the warehouse's mansion estate.
Alone again, as always, it would seem. Thoughts of golden sands and heavenly voices did not taunt him anymore, nor did thoughts of being alive with all his memories of his kind plague him as much as before. No, he had found something that taunted him more cruelly still. Oh, it was still a horrible business, being lonely, but perhaps it was for the best. Stranger had loved many times before his race's demise—he loved his parents, he loved his neighbors and relatives, he loved his leaders and even the servants of politicians that would pass him grapes every now and then. After the war and the fall of his people, Stranger thought that there was no worse feeling than having loved and lost, and to be reminded of that every day as he wandered alone.
Alas, there was something worse, and that was the feeling was having loved, lost, and being left in the world to live for two.
This was a stupid idea. Cutting her hair was a stupid idea—wait, okay no, she didn’t cut it, she SHAVED it, which was even stupider because when you’re in a timeline where there aren’t any electric razors and only the bladey ones, clumsy hands mean a world of hurt. But oh, this wasn’t her worst one yet; she’s recently made a worse slip-up than her hair fiasco, and that was… What, fighting? Arguing? Messing up a feelings jam? with Thief.
… With Blacwin.
Ugh, how stupid could she be? She should’ve just swallowed down her feelings of loneliness and locked them away deep into herself—it’s not like she didn’t have the room, what with her more or less complete lack of a story (ahem, by the way). Sure, she would lose the newfound kinship of Ante, but at least there wouldn’t be this awkward, messy mess surrounding them. She hated herself for it, but what she dreaded more was attempting to gather up some scraps of courage to talk to Blacwin. That’s where the whole gravity of the situation was—this looming conversation that they HAD to have or never have at all and let their friendship decay into a puddle of lukewarm wax that had held them together.
Was that a weird analogy? She felt like that felt like a weird analogy.
She kept putting it off, telling herself that she wasn’t ready, and that at least was true; even thinking about it made her stomach sink, and seeing him? Oh, no. Think of every unpleasant but not necessarily painful physical sensation mixed into one, grow it into a giant ogre, and have it beat you to a pulp with it’s pure physical uncomfortableness and you’d get only a shred of what it felt to see him. This was honestly worse than seeing an ex after a break-up—only, you know, not. She didn’t know what those felt like, and she certainly wouldn’t want to know. They seemed unpleasant enough to apply to this situation. She hoped that didn’t give off any weird vibes.
And here, from her place between the folds of reality, of what was canon and what wasn’t, she couldn’t help feeling… Cowardly. Which is what she was, certainly, but it hit closer to home here. It sunk in deeper in her brain, and part of her honestly blamed it on the lack of red locks that usually protected her precious scalp from invading negathoughts. He couldn’t reach her here, in this Lady’s fold. No one could. As far as anyone was concerned, she was alone here. And, as predicted, with cowardice, loneliness was sown, and vice versa. That’s what caused this. Cowardice, loneliness, and Amanda’s own nervous tendency to ruin everything around her. Maybe that’s why she was so alone in this fold. No one else wanted to be destroyed by her.
… Oh.
Well, she was a Cyclops, wasn’t she? That’s what they do. They go and destroy towns, ruin crops and people’s lives. They were a plight upon the earth, just as she is to those in the fold. It’d be so easy to go the way of what she assumed happened to Will/Benedict, who simply willed himself from existence. How hard would that be? She just… She just had to think of three specific things, right? Orange, eagle… Ugh, no, this was dumb. Self-pity was dumb.
She, admittedly, was dumb. But she knew that already.
She didn’t want her friendship with Blacwin to become lukewarm wax. Hell, she didn’t want it to be wax! Call her selfish, go ahead, but she wanted the wax to become steel. She wanted all the wax to become steel. But for that to happen, she’d have to get off her critically-acclaimed ass and go through the fold into the interspace and… A-and have a conversation. Another feelings jam, this one she wouldn’t mess up. And their bond would be forged in steel in the hearth of the Mother and yadda yadda yadda and… And when was she planning this, exactly?
When it stopped hurting seeing him.
Which would be ‘later’.
So instead of bursting from the fold into the interspace and forging some steel with a Thief in a hearth of blah, she sat there, in what she imagined to be “Her Corner”, petrified. Couldn’t this be easier? Couldn’t steel be a cake that she cooked up for him, and couldn’t that be that? Ugh, there was self-pity again, rearing its socially-anxious head. Nothing was bared from self-pity, certainly not steel, yet there she sat, unmoving, until two giant hands clapped together and when pulled apart, produced relatively large ukulele, who she had affectionately named Dagger. A few lonely pangs of the strings sang out against the void of the fold, just getting starting started, before a timid melody scattered about. The Cyclops opened her mouth to sing, soft at first, then loud, powerful, a Shout against the opposing nothingness that she faced.
