Stop

In a land ridden by plague and disease, it was rather surprising to find a city built within pestilence’s greedy grasp, filled with dragons — no, rebels — that sneered in the face of danger and decided instead to rise insurgent. Flood’s chipped claws clicked on the mix of cobblestone and dirty concrete as he was led down a steep path into a rounder clearing, where signs of scuffling could be seen in on the worn grounds.

Upon initially arriving at The Pit, the first civilization he had been introduced to after long and grueling years out fighting at the battlefront, he’d done what he had always been told to do as a mere soldier, which was to keep his head down and follow orders while minding his own business. Almost immediately after stepping past the threshold that led him further into the city, he could feel eyes bearing a weight onto his being, a mixed variety of curiosity, reserve, and most notably, hostility. And, almost immediately, Flood had felt as though his sheer presence was soiling the city streets, filth that muddied and blackened the cracked tiles beneath his feet. Flood had felt nothing when he’d been picked up earlier by the umber-toned aberration who guided him, had been beyond feeling, but upon stepping beyond the city gates he’d grimaced at the sharp wave of disgust that pushed its way into the back of his throat and threatened to bowl him over. He was a soldier, though. Flood had gritted his teeth, kept his head down, and followed Llareleith forth.

To Flood, the sparring ring was a familiar sight. Looking around now, he noted the training dummies lining the sides and the assortment of blunt weaponry used by others to hone their combative prowess. In front of him, Llareleith’s pace slowed, and he watched the aberration reach over to that rack of weapons and select two dull blades, handing one over to the scarred imperial with silent implication. Flood received the sword soundlessly, the weight familiar in his calloused talons, though hysteria bubbled in his throat and threatened to slip past his tongue. While he hadn’t expected anything else, how ironic was it, to be a broken pawn taken from the battlefield only in order to grip a weapon once more? Willing that dry mirth away, Flood’s verdant eyes drifted to meet Llareleith’s glowing gaze, and he inherently knew that this was a test. So tensing his muscles and baring his teeth in a sudden show of ire, he launched himself forward at the other.

It was a dangerous dance, a waltz that skirted the blurry lines of life and death as swords made toast to the survival of the strong and elimination of the weak. The ringing of cold steel echoed around the clearing as both imperial and aberration stepped in tune with each other, whirling, dodging, parrying with wretched familiarity to the act, to the battle. Flood’s nerves sang as Llareleith’s sword came close to head, and he barely ducked in time as wind whistled across his cheek before he was lunging forward with the attack. This was his life, as a soldier, always slashing and hacking away at the BeastClan ranks, cleaving flesh and taking lives. Another sidestep, another swing. So many long days and lonely nights out in the virulent wilderness, with nothing to his name but a sword. He couldn’t stop wielding his weapon; it was kill or be killed, and there were so many claws and teeth aimed for his throat. Over and over again he swung, and his ears began to ring as a fuzzy voice finally spoke. “Stop.” it told him, but he already had so much blood on his claws, and he was seeing red on his sword, in his reflection, mirroring the same blood roaring in his veins. “Flood,” the voice urged once more, as the singing of the steel crescendoed into an ugly howl, but he had to continue hacking away, since he was not ready to die today and he simply couldn’t stop, could not stop-

”Stop!” Llareleith’s crisp voice cut through the fog crowding in on his mind, and with a wretched noise, the battlefield slow fell away from his eyes as he beheld the sparse training grounds and the aberration beholding him with a firm gaze, composed save a light panting and the small trickle of blood from his palms that gave away the blind ferocity of Flood’s blows. Suddenly feeling hysterical as panic began to swallow him, the war-roughened imperial’s weapon slid from his slack grip and he slid to the ground, gasping. Blades were piercing his throat, making it almost impossible for him to breathe, and he felt the sharp sting of tears as his cracked claws scrabbled at his neck, desperate to remove the offending knives and the subsequent pain. His whole body was alight with a thunderous buzzing while his lungs struggled to keep him afloat, but he was drowning in red and couldn’t breathe; it would have been bitter irony if he survived so many years on the battlefield only to die now… Cool claws gripped his shoulders and jostled him to look upward into eyes that were unyielding but not unkind. Flood wanted to speak with him, to tell him that he was sorry and that such a thing would not happen again, that he would be useful and did not need to be thrown out just yet, but there were daggers around his throat still and his voice betrayed him.

Nonetheless, it seemed that the aberration already knew what he meant to say, the latter leaning forward to murmur in a hushed voice over Flood’s hunched form, “Listen. You are not a soldier of war any longer. I took you away from the battlefield for a reason, and have no desire to return you to it. You will act as a guard, you hear me? But I can’t have a guard who can’t control himself. We will work on it, together. Look around you. Here resides a clan of misfits, angry and betrodden, outcasts in each respective right. Look closely, and I know you will find your place here.” The words cut through the blind panic, the adrenaline, the red. Among the setting sun and as Flood’s gasping breaths slowly began to subside, they slipped in the cracked crevices of his heart, and for once he thought perhaps his burden had been eased, just the slightest bit.