Growing up, finding your legs. -Ichor and Demiros

Vanity is a plague. Superiority a delusion. Only fools think their definition of beauty made them worth more than others and aye, Ichor came from a long line of fools. His family was less of a tribe, and more of a collection of bloodlines who prized their own looks, each generation more stuck up than the last. Worst of all, Ichor’s father. There was no love in his father’s eyes when he gazed upon his only child. He saw only what would be the most beautiful of all the toskals within their group, had it not been for his.... deformity.

No, Ichor’s father never could forgive him for being born with such horrendousteeth that stuck up and out past his lip. He’d even attempted to file them, and nearly lost a hand. Ichor hoped he’d learn from this, but, his father was nothing if not stubborn. He would continue to endure this, for years upon years.

So be it. Whatever female he would wed, an arranged marriage of course, would have to look past the flaw. After all, his children would be more beautiful than him.

Ichor resented his father, his family, and their ideals for as long as he could form thoughts. He was scolded and punished as a pup when he tried to wrestle with the others of his “tribe.” Such a barbaric practice was beneath his status. Many things were viewed this way, as he would come to learn.

Not all was lost, however lonely Ichor felt. He had siblings, sure, but they were just as vain and cruel as the rest of them. Nobody else seemed to notice the tragedy of the community around them. None, except for Demiros. Easily heralded as the prized pup of the tribe, an alpha without a flaw. He had the pleasantest smile, and the calmest disposition. What threw off Ichor, however, was his genuine personality. Demiros never cared for his looks. Demiros never cared for anyone’s looks. He’d found Ichor one night, mouth bloody and crying by the stream. He sat silently with the other pup, dipping his feet into the cool water below them. The pair was no older than 9 years at the time. They sat in silence for a while, before Ichor jumped slightly at the feeling of a hand gently running its fingers through his mane.

Touch was never a positive in Ichor’s life. He’d fought to avoid being manhandled far too often for it to be anything but. However, in this moment, it was relaxing.

The two became close friends, nearly inseparable from that point on. Demiros was the first living soul Ichor felt he could open up to. It helped that Ichor’s father was rather pleased to see him act a proper, “civilized” gentleman in the presence of Demiros, at least, as far as he knew.

Demiros would watch in admiration as Ichor challenged the pups of the neighboring tribe, or better yet, the adults when he got bold, and sure enough to do so. He would patch him up as he lost, and cheer him on as he won. He would lean against the rocks at night, strumming soft cords on his lute, listening as his companion eagerly spoke of the day they’d set out for their rites, and never look back. This was their dream for years. They’d leave in the night when the world called to them, taking supplies from their so-called families. Ichor would defend the two and hunt, as he trained to do. Demiros would gather what edible plants they could find, and keep a friendly attitude with what other toskals they might encounter. Yes, this was to be their plan. They would hold onto this dream for years.

While Demiros was able to remain positive his entire life, the years of adolescence were not as kind to Ichor. The impatience and disgust only grew within his father, and moreso within Ichor himself. He had begun to feel the pull of the rite, and had begun stockpiling supplies and rudimentary weapons.

It seemed that he was not as discreet as he had hoped. As he begun to sneak out of his home to meet Demios by the stream where they had met, he felt a larger hand grab his scruff. A fight quickly ensued, as the younger toskal resisted. He would break away from his father’s grasp. He would break away from his ideals. He would break away from his corruption. He would break away from him. Golden yellow color began to cloud his vision, as blood welled within Ichor’s eyes, as the adrenaline pushed him to his demonic form.

He felt hands grasp him by the horns, large and unsightly, just as his teeth, as his father described. A hand removed itself from one horn, and moved to his throat, and with a roar, and a crack of electricity down his spine, Ichor snapped himself away. A pain sharp snd heavy surged like a wave through his head first, than the rest of him. He whipped his head back to see his horn, jagged and broken in the hand of his stunned father. Before he had a moment to think, Ichor lunged forward, grasping his broken horn, before plunging it into the stomach of the one who’d tortured and tormented him his entire life. 

The adrenaline faded, and Ichor stepped back, blinking. He saw the form of his father, slumped against the wall, and stared in horror. He fled, before others would find the source of the brief shouting. He didn’t stop to catch his breath, nor did he stop to find his only friend in the world. He’d likely never see Demiros again, he realized. Tears stung his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t ever return, he knew this. He had prepared endlessly for this moment with joy, but the reality of how it would happen was nothing he could ever foresee. He hoped Demiros would forgive him, or forget him with time. 

For now, his Rite has begun.