8th of Winter, 516 A.V.
Night
Night
The brief break of day that Prowl had experienced on the deck of the slaver ship that had brought him to Sahova shifted swiftly into an ill-tempered night. Wrathful clouds gathered overhead, threatening cloudburst and promising to shower the inhabitants of the Undead Isle with furious downpour. Air filled with the smell of rot, Prowl was almost glad when his handlers brought him and the remainder of his colony to the Holding cells. As far he was concerned, the stench of unwashed and sweating bodies was far preferable to that unsettling scent of death.
Darkness infected every corner of the freshly-made prison; clinging to the smooth, flawless walls which kept Prowl from the outside world. Three windows barred with iron served as the only reminder that a world outside of the cell existed. During the first hour of imprisonment, Prowl had moved closer to them out of instinct. He longed to feel the night air against his skin, like he had once in the Wildlands, but the still healing bruise circling his eye was a reminder that his wants mattered to none here. Especially not his jailers.
He now sat away from the windows, leering at his colony from the opposite side of the room. Even now, when they all were equal in their imprisonment, Prowl was an outsider among his kind. His sharp ears could pick up their whispers of rebellion, all spoken in their shared tongue. They changed topics frequently, switching from ideas of brute force to establishing who was to be the dominant Zith with a lack of elders. His colony had been pruned by the Ebonstryfe, and now the bat-like people numbered a total of eight surviving members. Nine if they included Prowl, which the young zith doubted they did.
Drawing his wings closer to his body, Prowl turned his attention inward. His anger flared bright from the exclusion his kind inflicted upon him, but he still knew his place among the Zith. Weak, ugly, and undeserving; what place had he among the people who would be predators. If he challenged the order of things, his place as omega and prey, he would end up dead. None knew this better than Prowl. So even as fury boiled his blood, the young Zith bit down on his lip to manage his anger. He focused on the pain, blocking out their half-formed ideas of escape and his own fire-filled thoughts. There was nothing but pain. Nothing but the warmth of the blood which filled his mouth from his now bleeding lip.
It was an odd type of focus, one that even further distanced him from his naturally impulsive race, but it had kept him alive this long. Kept his anger in check and kept his head down even as his people beat and berated him. He could only hope it would keep him alive under these new, rotting masters of his.
Prowl didn't know quite what to make of the Nuit. They seemed unnatural to him. Bodies stiff, movements forced, and flesh in a constant state of decay; it seemed to the Zith that these creatures were playing at life rather than living it. All he knew for sure was that if the Nuit tasted as bad as they smelled, Prowl and his kind would die of starvation faster than abuse.
The thought of food, even something as disgusting as Nuit flesh, sent Prowl's belly roaring with hunger. His long, black claws scratched his stomach in an a vain attempt to soothe its wails. It had been days since he had last eaten, and, though he was familiar with the gnawing feeling that ate at him from inside, he couldn't stop himself salivating at the idea of it.
On all fours, Prowl slinked over to the jailer's door as quiet as he could. He thought if he asked nicely enough, submitted to their dominance, the guards might take pity on him and find some scraps to feed him. His claws made a quiet scritch against the cold, stone floor as the young Zith skittered up to the door which sealed off the outside. He could feel his colony's eyes on him as he came to a stop at the foot of the door, but the fear of how his race would react to his begging was far from his mind. Prowl was concerned only about the biting, stabbing hunger which demanded he act. Claws scratching loudly against the wood door, Prowl jumped back in surprise as the door swung open in almost immediate response to his request.
Before the young Zith stood the towering figure of his jailer. The man did not stink of rot like the other inhabitants of the island, but instead carried the scent of warm, delicious blood. Prowl's mouth watered again at the presence of so much meat standing before him, but his fear kept him from striking in desperate hunger at the guard. There was something in the man's eyes that kept the Zith at bay. Something cruel and cunning. Something that demanded obedience and stilled even the most resilient prisoner. Burly, hairy, and built like a boulder, the man glared down with crossed arms at the now cowering form of Prowl.
"Speak if you can, beast."
Darkness infected every corner of the freshly-made prison; clinging to the smooth, flawless walls which kept Prowl from the outside world. Three windows barred with iron served as the only reminder that a world outside of the cell existed. During the first hour of imprisonment, Prowl had moved closer to them out of instinct. He longed to feel the night air against his skin, like he had once in the Wildlands, but the still healing bruise circling his eye was a reminder that his wants mattered to none here. Especially not his jailers.
He now sat away from the windows, leering at his colony from the opposite side of the room. Even now, when they all were equal in their imprisonment, Prowl was an outsider among his kind. His sharp ears could pick up their whispers of rebellion, all spoken in their shared tongue. They changed topics frequently, switching from ideas of brute force to establishing who was to be the dominant Zith with a lack of elders. His colony had been pruned by the Ebonstryfe, and now the bat-like people numbered a total of eight surviving members. Nine if they included Prowl, which the young zith doubted they did.
Drawing his wings closer to his body, Prowl turned his attention inward. His anger flared bright from the exclusion his kind inflicted upon him, but he still knew his place among the Zith. Weak, ugly, and undeserving; what place had he among the people who would be predators. If he challenged the order of things, his place as omega and prey, he would end up dead. None knew this better than Prowl. So even as fury boiled his blood, the young Zith bit down on his lip to manage his anger. He focused on the pain, blocking out their half-formed ideas of escape and his own fire-filled thoughts. There was nothing but pain. Nothing but the warmth of the blood which filled his mouth from his now bleeding lip.
It was an odd type of focus, one that even further distanced him from his naturally impulsive race, but it had kept him alive this long. Kept his anger in check and kept his head down even as his people beat and berated him. He could only hope it would keep him alive under these new, rotting masters of his.
Prowl didn't know quite what to make of the Nuit. They seemed unnatural to him. Bodies stiff, movements forced, and flesh in a constant state of decay; it seemed to the Zith that these creatures were playing at life rather than living it. All he knew for sure was that if the Nuit tasted as bad as they smelled, Prowl and his kind would die of starvation faster than abuse.
The thought of food, even something as disgusting as Nuit flesh, sent Prowl's belly roaring with hunger. His long, black claws scratched his stomach in an a vain attempt to soothe its wails. It had been days since he had last eaten, and, though he was familiar with the gnawing feeling that ate at him from inside, he couldn't stop himself salivating at the idea of it.
On all fours, Prowl slinked over to the jailer's door as quiet as he could. He thought if he asked nicely enough, submitted to their dominance, the guards might take pity on him and find some scraps to feed him. His claws made a quiet scritch against the cold, stone floor as the young Zith skittered up to the door which sealed off the outside. He could feel his colony's eyes on him as he came to a stop at the foot of the door, but the fear of how his race would react to his begging was far from his mind. Prowl was concerned only about the biting, stabbing hunger which demanded he act. Claws scratching loudly against the wood door, Prowl jumped back in surprise as the door swung open in almost immediate response to his request.
Before the young Zith stood the towering figure of his jailer. The man did not stink of rot like the other inhabitants of the island, but instead carried the scent of warm, delicious blood. Prowl's mouth watered again at the presence of so much meat standing before him, but his fear kept him from striking in desperate hunger at the guard. There was something in the man's eyes that kept the Zith at bay. Something cruel and cunning. Something that demanded obedience and stilled even the most resilient prisoner. Burly, hairy, and built like a boulder, the man glared down with crossed arms at the now cowering form of Prowl.
"Speak if you can, beast."
