[Flashback] The Lark and the Lyrebird [Wretch]

[Victor Lark]

67 Fall, 502

He flew. Through the grey streets and yellow plazas and black canals, he flew. Over the hills of rooftops and alley valleys and precarious cliff awnings, he flew. His face tickled in the late morning breeze and his heart burned with cold air as it tried to pump warmth to his moving limbs. His too-short toes sometimes found the shingled slopes too soon and he stumbled or stopped, but still he got up again, and he flew.

The boy had nothing to run from and little to fear. He was virtually a noble’s son and he never caused enough trouble that his pedigree could not save him from the authorities. He lived a comfortable life, though he would never know it. In his eyes, his life was the worst of them all, and it was all he could do not to die of boredom. To the ten-year-old human, the height of the city was his escape from a life of coddling and unfulfilling society. His favorite escape was to pretend he was a bird. Maybe he was getting too old to believe in pretending, but up here he could be as wild as he wanted. No one could catch him. Sometimes he even fooled himself.

Soon enough, he came upon a river of air between two buildings, too far to cross with a single jump. But his adrenaline made him feel powerful, and he was flying, after all. He did not hesitate to run off the edge. Only after he saw his feet drop beneath him did he remember that he had no wings.

Thinking quickly, he reached out for the wall opposite. The hard brick felt sharp against his hands and face as he collided with it, carving dark pink pockmarks into his skin. He slid down quickly, keeping his fingers alert for anything to grab hold of. His eyes remained shut tight for the pain of it, but not for panic: he did not think to consider what would happen if he met the ground too soon. Suddenly he felt the lower ledge of a window and he gripped it with every ounce of will he could muster. His body’s momentum tugged painfully against his arms, but otherwise the world became still again.

With a grunt, the child pulled up his legs and climbed clumsily through the open window, using the last of his adrenaline to find the strength. Without thinking, he rolled onto the floor. The room was even quieter than the outside, if it was possible, but he did not think to investigate it for now. He only looked down at his hands, where tiny red dots had begun to blossom. He inspected the little wounds by touching the sores and winced audibly.

[Wretch]

OOC: "Percy"I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but at this time in Wretch's life, his name was Percius. <3

"Percius." An airy voice, deep and rich like black satin, echoed down the hall. Percy lifted his head, roused from a groggy state of half-sleep as he sat in his wooden chair propped against he wall. Just half an hour ago, he'd completed his morning duties around the master's home: which as usual left him almost decrepit with exhaustion. The Kelvic had retreated to his room - a small, modest room with few furnishings and a single, cruel window. How easy it would have been to simply fly off and retake his freedom. Bitterly paying the window his hourly, obligatory glance, Percy didn't waste another moment getting out of his seat and starting down the hall. He knew Mathis wouldn't call for him again, he would only wait. His master was a deceptively patient man. He would suffer all grievances quietly, to the point at which one might think themselves completely forgiven. But over the months, Percy had begun to find he kept a private tally. And Mathis always repaid everyone their just dues. It made him so incredibly frightening. "Yes, sir?" The Kelvic appeared in the master's study, pushing open the unlatched, creaking door. A dark curtain over the window blocked out much of the morning sunlight, leaving a tall candelabra to fill the room with a golden haze. It throw Mathis's shadow against the far wall, creating a gray silhouette at least five times as large as his human owner was. Underneath the musty smell of burning wax was a more enticing scent: animal bones. Mathis was hunched over his desk, a collection of various Malediction products and unmarked animal bones of various sizes laid out before him in a neatly arranged gridwork. The salty smell of dried marrow made Percy's stomach voice its opinion. "Are... are you going to use all of those?" He dared not ask for a snack - a slave dared not ask for anything - but the implication was there. Mathis ignored him as he rose to his feet. He through a hood over his long hair and met eyes with Percy. As usual, the young Kelvic was oddly taken aback by the power in the man's stony gaze. It always felt like it was piercing through him. "Keep watch over the house. I have an errand to run and I have no room to bring you with me. Stay here. I'll be back in an hour." Percy's heart skipped a beat. Wait, wait, wait. Mathis was... leaving? "What? Where are you going?" "Mind your place," Mathis said firmly, narrowing his eyes at Percy to drive home his point. He then turned and cast a glance over to the various bones laid out on his desk. He selected two of them, from what looked like a cat or a larger rodent, and slipped them into a pocket. "It's none of your concern. As I said, I'll be back in an hour." "But... I'll be alone. You've never left me alone." Mathis turned to the Kelvic. "Should I be worried about you running off?" "Er..." If only he could. Even as crow, he wouldn't get far. Primary feathers on his wings were routinely clipped. The most he could do was slow his fall and a lot of useless fluttering. Percy grimaced and rubbed the back of his hand, his fingertips tracing over the black symbol burned into his skin. "No, of course not." "Good. I'd hate to send the city guard after you." Mathis motioned for Percy to move, then exited the study. "I doubt they would return you in any working order. You're no use to me if they break any limbs." "Yes, sir," Percy mumbled quietly, slowly following Mathis down the hall at a reluctant pace. Mathis was leaving him alone? What if Percy did something drastic? Burned the place down? Ate all his bone relics? Stole from the kitchen? No... this was a test wasn't it? The Kelvic shuddered. Being a slave was so much different from being a bondmate. Thinking on all the difference nuances only ever served to leave him unsettled. Already down the stairs, Mathis was out of the door and into the streets of Ravok before Percy could even put together a proper farewell. The master was such a strange, indecipherable person. Despite his shrewdness, there was something eerily kind about him. Percy really didn't know enough about humans to speculate on why. Maybe Mathis just liked him. Or maybe he hated him. The Kelvic really wasn't capable of determining which it was. Finally, Percy returned to his room, nudging open the gray, wooden door. And there was a boy. Caught in the doorway, the Kelvic paused, completely bewildered as he stared down at the child. He smelled like dirt and wind, but also carried traces of other people's perfumes - the way the more richly dressed tended to smell. It was always nauseating to be around him, and part of him had been glad that Mathis was the one to purchase him, instead of some fat aristocrat's son in want of a pet. Percy looked around the room. It was truly a meager space - barely more than a closet. Only a dilapidated mattress laid on one side, draped with a thin, linen blanket. In the adjacent corner was Percy's chair, and that was all. It never bothered him to own so little. In Sunberth, the Kelvic had never even been given his own special space. This was almost a luxury to him. "Hello?" Percy offered the boy cautiously. He looked too young to be any brand of burglar, though he wasn't sure. Human ages were hard to gauge, but he was almost certainly older than the slave. At five years, Percy already stood at adult's height, and appeared in human years to be closer to twenty or twenty-five. "Did you... did you fly in through the window?"

[Victor Lark]

The boy’s face rose suddenly, glaring with surprise. Little red wounds dotted the right side of his face, matching those which the rough stone had carved into his hands. He felt the pain of it, but did not yet realize how he bled. There were more interesting things to concern him here, a million things to see. Holding his tender fingers a few inches from his side, Victor rose to his feet, curious eyes locked on the man. His gaze did not linger long on the face before it immediately moved to check the hand, where he found the mark that separated them socially. Satisfied that he had not encountered the man of the house (which usually meant imminent punishment), his shoulders lost a bit of tension.

More words found his distracted ears. He examined the room hastily, waiting to meet the slave’s eyes until the question settled in his mind. When he did look back up at him, the flash of a candid smile moved on and from of his chapped lips. Ultimately he frowned, in order to reply, “Yes, I did.”

His eyes resumed their wandering. He attempted to look through the body in the doorway at the hall beyond. Unfortunately, the man was very tall and the door was rather narrow. Anxious, Victor found the chair, then climbed onto it and stood. Their eyes on the same level, he was temporarily content. “How did you get here?” he asked as if he belonged. He tried to fold his arms, but when he decided it hurt too much, dropped them again. The chair rocked beneath him as he leaned to one side, trying to see the hall over his shoulders. Still, there was nothing. He was trapped. He needed to get higher.

Without hesitation, he turned around and lifted one foot to the back of the chair. It stood in the corner, he figured; it could not possibly overturn with that kind of leverage. In less time than it would take to cross the tiny room, he hoisted himself up and the rickety thing subsequently fell under his weight, scraping noisily against the wall. Victor found himself on the floor again, balance lost. Instantly he scrambled to the next highest thing, the bed, and stood up again.

Only then did he recognize how he was panicking like a cornered animal. He must have seemed like a crazy person or, gods forbid, a nine-year-old. Embarrassed to move elsewhere, he planted his feet and raised his nose, licking his dry lips with a sticky tongue. “Do you know where this is?” he asked, trying his hardest to make his tone as polite as the governess would like it.

[Wretch]

"I... I live here..." the Kelvic responded, befuddled. Overcoming his initial shock and surprise to find a stray juvenile human in his room, he suddenly noticed that the boy was injured. There was a latticework scrape on one side of his face, moistening itself with slowly seeping blood. It was enough to change Percy's expression from astonishment to concern. It didn't even occur to Percy to ask how the boy had gotten hurt, who he was, or what he was doing in his room. Understanding humans and their strange habits was beyond the young Kelvic, and he'd decided rather early that he was happy enough just being a part of the picture. There was no need to digest the full scope of things. Percy knew his place in the world and he was more than comfortable staying there. Taking a few steps back out of the room, Percy turned and opened a linen closet. Drawing out a thin, white cloth, he returned to the boy just as he was climbing up onto the back of his chair. "Maybe you shouldn't..." he began, but the chair fell before he could even finish his sentence. Wincing, he stood frozen in confusion as the boy crossed the room and stood on his bed. He was certainly full of energy. Asked where this place was, Percy offered a brief smile of surrender. "It's the home of my master, Mathis. I don't know his family name. I don't think I'm allowed to know." Cloth in hand, Percy took a few steps forward, examining the scrapes on the boy's face and hands with quick, birdlike motions of his eyes and head. "If you're asking where in Ravok you are, I don't know that either. I'm not allowed to go out on my own. Even when I'm out with the master, I can't see anything when I'm walking on the ground, anyway. Sorry." It was true. Even though his human body was so much larger than his native crow form, the world felt so much more cramped when you could only move in two dimensions. Percy couldn't navigate his way through anything without a bird's eye view of it. Grimacing back the awkwardness of the situation, Percy approached the boy. "You're bleeding, you know." He reached out to steady the boy's head with the pads of his fingers under his young chin. With the cloth in his other hand, he attempted to swab away some of the blood that had been accumulating on his cheek. "How old are you? Aren't you too young to be out by yourself?"

[Victor Lark]

Etiquette hung over his perception of a person like an itchy blanket, unnatural and hard. He did not know why it was so important to be nice. It seemed much easier to say what he meant, and more interesting to hear the truth. The unimportant question came from reflex. He wanted to seem adult. While it was true that he did not know where this place was, he cared much more about what was in it. But it was impolite to search a person’s home without their consent, so he did not. Yet.

The answer was vague enough and, as far as he was concerned, typical. Despite how he felt oppressed at the powdered hand of his wealthy family, he did not think to sympathize with a slave. Of course he was not allowed to see the outdoors often. That’s how it is, he thought. He is content.

He recoiled when the big hand reached for his face. The odd mannerisms in it, was well as those of his dark, thin face, ignited in him an eerie familiarity, a memory he could not quite place. Whatever it was, it stirred his naïve impression of the man. As he felt the gentle fingers on his chin, his distrusting grimace melted into wary calm. If he ventured to examine the boy’s stinging hands, he would not resist. He did, however, frown at the question of his age. “I’ll have you know,” he said, stumbling over the phrase which he had heard repeated in halls lined with of damask silks, “My eleventh winter is this next. I’m almost a man! What about you? Aren’t you too old to be in all day?”

But the offense dissolved as easily as it had risen in him. The slave had been told to remain, he remembered. He had to do what people told him! That’s how it is! “Anyway, what do you mean, walking on the ground?” Victor continued, hopping to the floor and immediately exiting into the hall. Even though a large portion of Ravokan slaves were Kelvic, Victor had not made the connection. He added, “Do you run on roofs too?”

He expected him to follow, if not for the obligation of servitude then because that was what adults usually did when he ran off. His little wounds did not hurt any less, but distraction deterred the pain for now. His short legs were quick, spurred by unrelenting curiosity. One or two little circles of blood dropped to the floor behind him.

[Wretch]

The young boy was apprehensive of Percy, but he expected that. The Kelvic was gentle and passive - that was a slave's nature. Though he hesitated after the boy recoiled, Percy was quietly insistent, and eventually was able to dab away some of the blood and dirt from his small, round face. His touch was very tender and careful, so as not to hurt the boy more by irritating his tiny wounds. When he was done and the cloth was stained tan and red, he cautiously took the back of one of the boy's hands and overturned it, cleaning his other scrapes. No one had asked him to tend to the boy's wounds, of course, but Percy was innately nurturing and protective - that was a Kelvic's nature. Usually. Percius smile when the boy called him old. He had been around humans long enough to know that his appearance was deceiving. "You're older than me. I'm only five." Percy glanced upward briefly as he finished cleaning one hand and started on the other. His brown eyes returned to his work. "But I would like go outside more. I don't like being indoors all day." The Kelvic rose to his feet, examining the linen cloth. It was now patched with dirt and small bloodstains. Mathis was going to ask how that happened. His master was forgiving, sort of, but he wasn't sure he would react favorably to Percy allowing an intruder in his home. What should he do with the cloth? He couldn't hide it: the smell of blood was too obvious (he knew that a human sense of smell was much less keen, but by how much he could never be certain). Distracted by his dilemma, Percy looked up and answered the boy belatedly. "Run on roofs?" Is that where he came from? That would make more sense. "Wai--" Percy caught himself. Someone in his place giving orders to a Ravokian citizen was absolutely preposterous, and beyond that, punishable. But where was he going! Worriedly, he followed the boy down the hall, trying to distract him with more chatter. "No, I fly. It's much easier than walking, faster too. I used to fly, anyway." The house was rather small - a condominium, actually. The upstairs consisted of an open hallway with a banister, closets, and three rooms: Mathis's study, his bedroom, and the storage room reserved for Percy. In the middle of the hall, which resembled more of a balcony, a steep stairway led down to the main floor, with a living area and a kitchen space. Sunlight shown in the smoky window of the front door. "Um, young master, where are you going? Can I lead you outside? Master Mathis will be home shortly. I don't think he'll appreciate you wandering his home." Percy's sharp vision caught the flecks of blood that fell to the floor, and he had to stop to mop up each one with his linen cloth. He grimaced to himself, flustered. The master was not going to like this.

[Victor Lark]

He ignored his pursuer’s warning remarks, far too willful to be effected much by passive suggestions. The threat of this faceless Master Mathis was a whisper on the wind beside the much louder notion mentioned previous. “You fly!” Victor repeated, half asking if it were true. He spun around and stumbled backward a few paces, eyes full of wonder. How? he almost said, but only managed a huffed exhale before his forgotten feet faltered beneath him. Momentum stole his balance and suddenly he fell. But instead of exclaiming some pathetic howl of surprise, his reflexes tossed his legs over his shoulders and he rolled. He was nearly silent except for the noise of his shoes and knees against the floor, and the cough produced by his awkwardly folded lungs as he rose.

Pushing up with the sides of his hands, he scrambled to standing with his expression still glowing. The healthy child’s web of scrapes already mostly closed; Percy’s cloth had made sure of that. But in the first finger of his left hand, there remained a long cut that still welled red. The tumble had shaken more of the blood to the fine wood below, and Victor’s unknowing feet stepped on the tiny puddles as he resumed, “How do you fly? Show me!”

The boy had since decided that he did not have to bother with courtesy. It did not count with slaves. They had to be nice to him, and if his mother was an example of anything, he did not have to return the favor. Besides, the Kelvic was only five, no matter how he looked. Victor never had to use his mask to those younger than he. The freedom put a wide smile on his round face. His dry lips smacked as he briefly considered the stairs, then decided a good slide down the banister was a better option for descent. “I can fly, too! Look!” Climbing and falling—it was his best impression of flight. He could have pulled himself to do it, too, if it were not for the sting in his hands. “Help me up!”

[Wretch]

You fly! Percy grimaced as he knelt down to mop up another spot of blood on the floor. Though the sunlight pierced the windows in the condominium, the home's interior remained largely darkened by its dark, wooded designs. The floors, the banister, the cupboards. Made from deep, burnt mahogany or... some other wood. Percy didn't know. Trees were good for sitting in, and that was the extent of his botanical knowledge. The spots of blood were hard to see, almost even for Percy's keen vision. But he wiped up every one. "Not exactly," Percy answered reluctantly, looking up in time to see the boy tumble backwards over himself. Or was it deliberately executed? It wasn't something Percy had ever done himself. He gave an odd, confused look, then shook his head. "I don't fly anymore. My wings are clipped." More blood. The slave was beginning to grow annoyed. He was grateful, and a little proud, that Kelvic childhoods did not last long. Wretch was never this exasperating. Or he didn't think so. He had never really stopped to ask his mother what she thought. Seeing the boy climbing up the banister made Percy's heart skip a beat. If that child fell off and broke his neck, the Kelvic would be severely punished for certain. Probably killed. The slave, however, would be chastised for stopping him, and the boy would probably try it himself anyway, whether Percy helped or not. Hoping his assistance would avoid any major disasters, the Kelvic straightened and sighed. "Humans can't fly," Percy told the boy matter-of-factly. Tossing the bloodied and dirty towel over his arm, he helped lift the boy onto the banister, guarding the steep drop on the other side of the stairs with his arms. "They can only fall fashionably." Percy closed one eye in apprehension as he let the boy do what he willed. Once he reached the downstairs foyer, the Kelvic would call down, "May I show you outside now, young master?"

[Victor Lark]

At one point, Victor might have frowned at the Kelvic’s disparagement, but any discontentment he once felt was blown away with the speed of his descent. His carefully trimmed hair flew wildly behind him and his warm face felt cool in the artificial breeze. A scream of childish delight bounced off of the dark wooden walls, and he laughed as if he had never done it before. He felt like he was flying, however he actually looked, and that was all that counted, really. As he straddled the banister haphazardly, his fingers drew a short red line on the thin bar. Then he let go entirely, arms flailing above his head.

After only an instant, the steep slope ended. The boy’s quick hands pushed against the knob there and he vaulted over it clumsily. Everything was too close together here; he was forced to turn and tumble laterally, and inevitably collided with a wall or a table or some other thing. He did not bother to look around. He moaned at the impact and giggled for the lingering thrill, all at once. He remained in that wriggling repose for a few extra moments, unaware of anything.

The slave’s voice rang in his ears. It took him a few moments to recognize the words. He stumbled to his feet and replied, “No. Why?” His wandering eyes found the kitchen. He licked his lips again and sucked on the pain in his finger. “Do you have any ice?”

He plodded to the kitchen table and climbed onto one of the chairs, much the same as he had done upstairs. Little feet proceeded up onto the table, the surface with just the right balance of height and ease of ascent. There he sat, legs swinging from the side, chin bobbing in every direction. As he looked around, picking out details that he would never remember, he mentioned idly, “You don’t need wings to fly, silly. You can run! You should fall down the stairs, sometime, when Master Masith isn’t here! He would never know, and it’s great fun!”

[Verilian]

Victor Lark +1 Running +2 Climbing +2 Acrobatics +1 Observation +1 Rhetoric Lores: It takes Wings to Fly, Acting like you Belong, Etiquette: How to Treat a Slave, Fashionable Falling Wretch +1 Observation +1 Medicine +1 Cleaning Lores: Home Alone, The Conundrum of how to get rid of somebody without telling them to Go, Patience of a Saint You Question My Logic? : If you have any questions about XP, feel free to send me a PM Notes: Victor, always a fan. Keep up the good work! Wretch, it's too bad you left. You seemed like a pretty decent writer, would have liked to see more from you.