Bound By Blood.txt
Writer's Note: Ah, to foray back into writing, or writing seriously. I have long since toyed with the idea of writing, and played about with friends in RP, but never seemed to get into writing seriously. After several unfortunate ventures at more artistically oriented sites, I had lost a lot of my drive to continue writing. Driven to consult a friend, I was directed here, as another outlet for my literary tendencies. While I may not be able to paint a masterpiece in Photoshop, I would like to believe that I can weave a web of intrigue through the form of writing. As my first publicly posted work in over a year, I figured it might do well simply to get back to the basics and perhaps finish an idea that has long since ruminated in the back of my mind...
Without further ado, I shall allow my mind to run rampant!
"Guilty."
One word, two damning syllables- yet at the same time, one of the most condemning words out there. To call one guilty was to defame their reputation, to bring forth flaws in their actions, and in some cases, to send their lives straight to hell. In the courtrooms, guilty was the one word that the accused hoped would never be spoken. For one individual, it was that very word that was just made audible.
Six hours ago, six of the longest hours that he had ever trudged through, that word had officially ended his life of freedom. Thin lines of white and black trailed before his eyes, creating a curtain before the flaxen oculars that stared disdainfully upon the dusty floor of the cargo truck he had been loaded into. Though he was not the sole occupant of the vehicle, he expected no words of conversation, save for the occasional cough from one of the occupants. The interior was dreadfully hot, signified by the soft pants and sighs of the other occupants.
A soft groan to his right called his gaze up, his attention falling upon the gaunt form of what he assumed to have at one time been a woman. Or rather, would have been a woman had it not been for the span of feathery plumage that erupted from her shoulder blades, or the hawk-like talons that mad up both legs from the knee down. His eyes continued to glide up along the rough, abused flesh to fall momentarily upon her face. Oddly enough, her face was untouched. Silky smooth skin that radiated the glow of the sun itself, the healthy shine shifting with every motion she made- occasionally made angelic by a falling snow-white feather. Her chest heaved with short, gasping pants. Curiosity roused once more, he glanced up at her eyes- lids clasped tightly shut. She was in duress, possibly even in pain. He wouldn't put it past the sadists who had thrown them into this truck like worthless luggage.
To his left, he heard the clanking and rattling of chains, followed by a loud grunt and a reverberating thump upon the cold, metal wall. His attention turned back to his left, the checkered hair falling back over his right ear. This one was no avian. The unlucky creature was male, his body resembling that of a lizard of sorts. Dark green scales consumed the entirety of his body, fading into a pale goldenrod at the palms of his webbed hands. The thick muscle of the lizard's tail coiled to his right, running down over the side of the benches they were forced upon, the cold steel surface feeling as though it came right out of the wall itself. Just as the avian, the lizard-male made no audible words of complaint; audible being the operative word, as the only words that were spoken sounded to be obscenities murmured under his breath. His frustration garnered no relief, the armored hide of his wrists still clasped within the binding cuffs.
"Save your strength," spoke the avian, her voice- though strained- echoing hints of its elegant origins. They were all different people before their days of persecution, he knew that much. Imprisonments had gained humans a work force, and in these dark days, they were now expendable.
He could see it already- through the armored glass window that allowed the driver and passenger a full view of all of their prisoners., the pyres of smoke rising high within the sky signifying what seemed to him like a gateway into the mouth of hell itself. The heat was beginning to overcome him, a thin rivulet of sweat running down the back of his neck and sticking to the armored, coal-black scales. His eyes turned down to stare upon his claws, clasping the hand shut and sending a sparse scattering of dust from around his hand. His lungs burned, his chest pulling tighter as he attempted to draw in another deep breath, only to release a held exhale. So hot, it was so sinfully hot. His lungs burned as he fought for another breath, ears beginning to ring with a soft whine.
"Just give in, don't fight it," he heard the avian speak again, prompting the draconic being to look up at her through watery, shuddering vision. Even with the impairment, he could see the soulless, listless smile plastered upon her lips. This wasn't right, none of this was right! Every one of the occupants simply looked towards the stained window, as though begging for their last few moments of freedom. For now, within the belly of this metal beast, they were free. Once they passed those gates, once they were lead in on all fours past the thin, electrified wire of the fence, no amount of sunlight would gain them freedom.
Even now, he could not bring himself to pay credence to the avian's word. His vision hazing, his head beginning to feel as though it were being clasped tightly within a vice, he clasped tightly at the steel platform that they had been lined upon. How he wished to speak a word of complaint, to perhaps fight against the odd illness that had abruptly befallen him, he could not bring his mouth to do more than utter soundless words. It was fading, his vision growing dark as he drew in burning breaths of sulfur- though for all his lungs were worth, he may as well have been breathing in acid. Was this a hallucination? Had he been drugged? Even now, he could hear it.
A soft thump, followed by another, and another.
His heart was under a great deal of stress, pounding in his ears and feeling as though his ribcage were being jerked back and forth with each throb of the struggling muscle. Again, he opened his lips in a gaping gasp, throwing his head back and sending a jaw-rattling shudder through his mouth as his horns slammed against the back wall. As though a synapse, his head lurched forward, the tresses of hair collapsing messily before his fading vision.
He blinked, drawing a hand up to rub at his eyes, each successive amount of pressure only making his vision darker, his eyes feeling as though they were burning. Water seeped from the corners of his eyes as he trembled. A ghost of the past, he could remember it now.
Guilty. He had been guilty.
That justified it all, he deserved this. He was being condemned for his crimes. Guilty, guilty, guilty! The word rang in his head again, the pounding of the gavel clacking in response to each repetition of the word. His lungs burned harder, though this time, he could draw no breath to cool them. His eyes snapped fearfully back and forth, his hand frantically tearing the columns of hard away from his eyes. It made no difference anymore. His vision had left him, His lungs struggled for breath, his heart pounding harder, creating a heated pressure within his skull.
They were crushing him, they were killing him, because he was guilty. Abruptly, a searing white cut through the inky darkness, calling him forth. Blinded, he sought forth the light, throwing himself forward. Away from this prison, away from this hell... Away, away, away.
Light.
His escape. His release from the abyssal pit that choked him, that threatened to snuff away the blaze of his life, he was free of it. A soft whipping sounded in his ears, his eyes snapping open to the wooden blades of an antique fan. Nestled against a rocky, off-white ceiling, the blades of the antique fan circulated several feet above his head, in the center of the small room that he found himself in. His heart no longer throbbed with pangs of fears or stress, or at least not fears at this point. It was with a shuddering sigh that he brought a hand up to his head, his nostrils flaring at the invasion of a new scent.
Someone else was within the house. He could feel the heat in the air, the sweat basting his brow, even the jeans that he had passed out in, he could feel a pooling warmth at the conjunction of the two legs, the dark fabric quite a bit darker at said point. A protracted groan sounded forth, his hands groping blindly for the cheap nightstand at the upper left of his bed. Disgusting, it was an absolutely disgusting reflex to terror.
What, for that matter, had scared him so deeply? Even now, the male found himself searching for answers that his mind was not willing to concede. His fingers slid up along the side of his brow, if only to wipe away the small droplets of sweat that began to trickle down towards his eyes. His body felt as though it had been lit ablaze, his heart rattling and knocking like an ancient engine. His lungs pleaded for him to breath in deep intakes of air to steady himself, his mind still flashing through images of the horrific dream he had just had.
But had it been a dream? The visions that seemed to flood his memory all at once, they seemed so real. He could swear that he still felt that cold steel cage melting around him, that hideous smoke still rose in thick columns in the distance. He could still see that defeated glassy stare of the avian, the desperation of the lizard-male as he struggled to free himself from the trapping manacles that clasped about his wrists and legs. He could recall the deafening silence.
Thoughts would have to wait. A rapping upon the door sounded the arrival of another figure. The figure moved with a smooth gait, her hips bobbing with the slight sashay to her step. A slender arm rested against the corner of the wall, rust-colored fur coating the entirety of her body. Her lithe form had long since gained the male's attraction and pursuit, unfortunately to no success. From beneath a sea of ebony curls, two large ears lay flattened- fallen upon the silken bed of hair that he so longed to run his fingers through. She stared upon him with a serene gave, the corner of her muzzle tugging upwards in a bit of a half-smile, exposing faint glimpses of ivory bone. Her left knuckle rest against the waist of a pair of particularly puffy cargo jeans, her hips popped to the left.
That flirtatious grin, that casual demeanor, those brea- No. He had more class than that, he knew better than to characterize her by one trait, as wonderful as that trait may have been. Stirring himself was certainly a bad idea, especially in his current situation.
"Rough night?" She questioned, the elegant tone striking him like a ten pound hammer directly upon the head. Her voice held, in addition to elegance, an exotic timbre as well. For the longest while, he had attempted to pinpoint just what that tone was, a European derivative of some sort, that was his most recent postulation. Though his mind was abuzz with new thoughts, she had left him grasping at straws for words. His silence was duly noted as she sauntered forth, her hips bobbing with each step that she made, the rust-colored paws hanging at her side. "It must have been, I think, this is the first you haven't jumped at the chance to make a pass at me."
"As you said, it was just a rough night," he responded, attempting to avoid the blatantly obvious tease of the sashay. She was well aware of his emotions, and she never hesitated to exploit them through small teases, flirty smiles, and the occasional empathetic giggle at a bad joke. "If you'll forgive me, I feel that I should go cleanse myself," he concluded, pushing himself up from the silken sheets that decked the now mussed surface of the bed.
"I've taken the liberty of preparing breakfast for you," the vulpine spoke, the thick, fuzzy mass of her prized tail twisting and curling behind her in what closely resembled a smooth wag. An ever-expanding grin opened upon the lowered muzzle as she noted a faint incline of the right brow, a universal body synapse that indicated intrigue or curiosity.
"I would appreciate it if you did not break in while I rested, Finn," he chastised, the softly uttered warning bringing a cheery giggle to her lips.
"I'm sorry, but I did not break in. You left your door unlocked," she responded, heading towards the bed as he arose, the plush surface of her twisting tail grinding against his leg as he passed by. "Now I have warned you several times before about securing your door. You know that there are less reputable types than I who roam these streets, and they would not hesitate to come knocking at your door. You should probably make it a better habit of locking yourself in here," Finn concluded, playfully bringing a hand to pat at the rough denim over his behind, giggling heartily as he lurched forward and hobbled out of the room.
He was an odd one, of that she had no doubt, but there was something about him. He wasn't like the other brutish types that she had come across. He was what many would likely consider a hermit, at least in terms of social interaction. That was fine enough, perhaps, though she did wish that he would get out more. His bed had been soiled, the damp mattress more than likely what was causing his distress. She would not notify him of her discovery, of course, knowing that his emotional instability would create an unsafe situation. Such pride he held in himself, though she assumed that it was customary for his race, and though she felt she would never be able to find out just what had transpired shortly before her arrival, the soiled mattress indicated that something was very wrong.
From the window, she began to hear the soft pitter-patter of falling raindrops. A storm was on the way.