WIP Wednesday
*scurries into the room, bracing myself on the door way* I actually fulfilled a promise! >:D
By that I mean: I have successfully thought up a few scenarios with Dragon!Fane back in the days of Arlathan~ *does a happy dance* The wonders of new headphones blocking out reality so I can write~
Thank you @noire-pandora and @fiadhaisteach for the tags! <3
Excuse the pacing in this snippet. That’s something I’m still working on honing! There’s also some slight gore and blood mentions, but it’s not too heavy. Even so, read with caution. :3
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Fane was situated outside the towering walls of Arlathan, curled up on a flat plateau and merely watching the everyday machinations that the Elvhen insisted on performing. A light breeze, the whisper of spirited trees, and all the smells of nature, sweet and earthy, yet he felt disquiet, restless. He required something…fresh to observe, and there was no such thing to be had. His gaze fluttered to and fro, witnessing rituals that had begun eons ago begin to finally take shape, memorizing the differences and similarities of every Elvhen citizen as they came and went, their builds, their hair, their expressions, reading their pools of color to determine the mood of the air, but still he was dissatisfied.
This view was old, stagnant. He needed new scenery, or at least something that didn’t make his blood boil.
Truly, there were so many mundane tasks when it came to the culture of elves, he truly couldn’t be bothered to list them all or care, really. He had witnessed them a thousand times for thousands of years; the luster had worn off. Some of what the elves did he still enjoyed, such as the blacksmiths’ weapons and armor or an artisan’s newest painting or pottery. Creation would always elicit a reaction of awe in him, but anything else? Dull. Boring. Corrupted. Old. And truthfully, he was keeping his gaze on the slaves who filled the halls of the palace more than their masters did.
But even that sight was growing tiresome.
Fane let his head rest upon his front feet with a huff, brow drooping as he observed a young elven woman carrying a large pale of water. Her hair was akin to Mythal’s, black as a raven’s feathers, and her face matched, but not with any features.
A leafless tree (Though, to him, it appeared more draconic at times. The audacity.) adorned a sphere of heavily flush porcelain, hugging the space below and above a set of topaz colored eyes with white branches.
“One of Mythal’s, is she?” Fane let his eyes roam and absorb, fixing them upon the amber pair that were somewhat downcast. It was hard to see the young elf’s emotions, but her lithe, fragile, and slumped form told him all he needed to know. “Hardly any different from the rest despite the wolf’s claims.” His thoughts paused, pondering, sifting through doubt to find trust. “...Or perhaps she was recently relinquished to her from another? Her vallaslin does appear to be fresh, bright, more beveled...” Another huff left his nostrils, a sensation of exasperation passing through him. “Even so, the damage appears to be done. She is broken in soul, as well as body. The amber of her eyes seem unable to remember how bright they should be…”
Fane let out another huff, a feeling of disgust worming its way up from his heart as he observed the young woman stumble with a sharp gasp, some of the water escaping from her bucket. For a brief moment, the delicate, flushed face of the slave shot upwards, her raven hair whipping back and forth as amber eyes were now alight, but not with joy, not with life.
Fear in sparks of honey and in a visage that should hold a smile of youth, not one of horror. How many times would he see fear in every hue, every expression? When would he see a rainbow?
“Her body is too frail, too devoid of muscle to carry even water. Do these creatures have no shame left in their beings? Are they not satisfied with collaring my kin so they must collar their own?” Fane let out a low snarl as he watched the young woman’s pale face glisten with tears instead of sweat as she dropped to her knees, furiously attempting to hide the sign of her ‘failure’. “Why do you believe you are at fault, elf? Why do you believe you must forfeit your life, your freedom for those who would not do so for you?“
Fane felt his upper lip curl, another snarl escaping from his chest as the girl wiped at marble, stained her hands with mud and soon, blood. His eyes widened, shocked and horrified in his own right.
“She is so fearful of those within the walls, of being reprimanded for spilling water that she is destroying her own body?!” Fane lifted his head, eyes flitting back and forth, up and down, trying to understand why such a visceral response from the girl was happening.
He found none in blazing topaz.
The young woman was scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing with only the skirt of her dress, the cotton tearing, ripping, turning red as her hands began to meet the roughness of stone and marble. It was as if a new, unknown strength had possessed her, spurring her to work her arms into overdrive despite how frail they appeared. Fane was floored by the display, eyes unable to tear away despite how he wanted to turn from such behavior.
It was like his kin when they would mindlessly paw at the ground until their claws were naught but a memory and their scales would begin to flake from such desperation, such numbing madness.
Fane felt his heart begin to thud with panic, to pound like the largest of drums. “Enough! Enough!!” he cried within, the very thought shaking the foundation of his own mind. “Do you think they will heal you?! Do you think you will survive walking back in with blood-stained hands?! If they see such a sight they will persecute you, assume the reasoning behind it, and dispense their warped sense of justice even as you cry innocence!”
Despite his internal cries, but not so internal snarls and growls, the Elvhen girl continued to mop up the spilled water with the same frenzied, fearful expression. Fane dug his claws into the dirt beneath him, rage beginning to engulf him as the young girl’s tears never slowed, as her expression never calmed. Something had to be done, but he couldn’t intervene! He wasn’t allowed to intervene! He was in a den of wolves, constantly being circled despite how one constantly stood in front of him and bared its fang in warning! If he were to intervene, with a slave no less, he would be spitting in the face of the one who offered him, his kin, a chance!
Yet, he couldn’t help but feel wrong in standing back and doing nothing.
“Look up! Look. Up!” Fane begged in desperation, ignoring how he bristled at spurning his inherent nature. He began to rise to his full height in an attempt to draw a fear entrapped gaze his way. Sadly, the young woman kept her widened eyes on the ground, on the scene of her ‘crime’. A feeling like despair gripped at his heart, his lids beginning to twitch. “Please, girl… Let me erase the bitterness that should not be apparent in honey…” His eyes darted back and forth, away, searching. “If I could find the wolf, if I could bring him to you, he’d help, he’d offer you kindness instead of retribution, but–but–!” The wafting scent of metal caused his nostrils to flare, his gaze abandoning his search for help and back to the elven girl. “No, no, no! Stop! Stop!”
His pleas were futile, and Fane felt more despair latched on him as the young woman let out a pained yelp, but still continued to scrub. No matter how much he cried, how much he roared, he would not be heard. His questions would go unanswered, his begging would fall as rain fell, silent and forgotten, as they had for many a century. Yet, he felt the need to scream, to plead.
He wished for this pointless oppression to stop!
“Stop, stop, stop! Stop! Stop! There is no point to this servitude! There is no point! Why must you bow and scrape, bleed and cry as if there is?!” Fane begged and begged, desperately wishing he could speak! Just this once he wanted a voice filled with words instead of incoherent, fear-inducing noise!
His scales bristled as skin tore, red staining white, blood mixing with earth. The air around him dropped, instantly turning at least thirty degrees cooler to where snowflakes began to drift on summer’s wind. He could hear the whisper of despair, the spirits that clung to such a distressing emotion as it clung to him clambering to witness.
All that, and still the girl would not look up at him.
Fane felt his whole face pinch with a snarl, frustrated and at his wits end. “Stop.” he commanded once more, but it was not heeded. His upper lips snapped straight up like when one pulled at a swath of cloth to smooth it out, fangs on full display. “Stop.”
Once again, a command. Once again, a denial.
Icy breath leaked from between his fangs, coating the grass with ice and his tongue with snow. “Stop!” The wind around began to pick up, to send the snowflakes swirling with anger as more blood, as more flesh, as more pain exuded from amber depths and a marred, branded face. “I said–!”
The whole world shattered into a million pieces as his maw split wide open, a sound, a roar of utter anguish, of utter rage, of utter agony escaping from the silent vessel that was his body as it could no longer bear the pain he had unknowingly took as his own. It shook the hills beneath his feet, caused the spirits of despair in the air to scatter and hide, tore into the clouds above as they grew thin, and–
–bore the pain, the suffering of a thousand slaves of a thousand years. Yes, this sight was growing tiresome, and so, too was the music Fane constantly found himself creating in place of those he claimed he did not care for.
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(A brief explanation of what’s going on and the tag list below!)
