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Downtrodden
"'Ya got no job? Starving? Need work? Jus' wanna enjoy life a bit? Ask 'round for Downtrodden."
Slowly, slowly, it was coming back to him; his mind, that which made it possible for him to thrive alongside the twisted ranks of humanity.
Argghh, this...
This is... hgh...
Flowing in like a breeze on a Summer night, Mal glided in over the walls of Etzos and settled down in the common district afterdark. None had seen him, though some had heard the wind roaring at his passing, and the quiet, empty streets were speckled with the occasional torch light, maybe a dark figure hobbling across towards some unknown arrangement.
Most of all, something inside Mal was hurt, and broken. It was the Hyx, and for some reason that essence inside him was growing louder with each passing day. The cruel, pure vengeance and fury it held resounded within like a dull drum beat he could not escape from. It was saddening, that they no longer shared a bond, that this part of himself felt like it wanted to be free.
And so he set off into the Underground, tracing its familiar passageways. Some stared at him in the torchlight, terrified--his new body was wicked, even by the standards of the criminal underworld. His long, wispy ears stuck up from his skull, a bestial nose upon his face, with piercing canine eyes, the pupils narrowing into penetrating slits as the fire revealed his form.
Behind him, a thick tail trailed behind, carried ever so slightly above the earth. It was prehensile, and strong Wrapped around him were the ragged remnants of an Etzori scout uniform, recently washed but pock-marked with holes and tears. Furthermore, behind his back, there were wings that glinted in the flames, each feather upon them similar to steel in consistency, the quills of each sharp and deadly.
The feathers coated much of his body: from head-to-toe, and to the tip of his tail. It was a peculiar raiment that made him look otherworldly, his form shining bright under the glance of every light. Hiding when one looked like this was difficult, but he didn’t need to hide; he was safe from those who would harm him. In fact, he was such a creature of death that he punished himself constantly for all of the lives he’d ever taken. That skirmish many Trials before in the woods with the Etzori and Sar’kahr was still seared into his mind.
And so he navigated his way to the Downtrodden, relieved to find the door closed, a smile cracking upon his lips as his sensitive ears picked up the thrum of a lively tavern beyond. His clawed, padded hand-paw clenched tight and smacked against the door a few times. A slat opened, a glaring look quickly fading away to bewilderment.
”Padfoot? Is that you?”
”Yesss...” Mal carefully rasped, head tilting. What gave him away was the eyes--those Hyx eyes, which carried over to every form.
The door unlatched, and swung open.
”Padfoot is ‘ere!” the man bellowed. The whole crew cheered, though many in the tavern went dead quiet as that beast strode in through the door.
”Aw’righ!” Mal bellowed, his voice deep with growled tones. “Aye’m been fightin’ Etzori--eergh!”
He buckled over and clutched his pounding temples, still wracked by pounding headaches. After each one, the atavism he was plagued with returned fiercely. This elicited worried gasps and cautious stares from the tavern-goers, Mal stumbling forth towards the stools at the bar and sliding his rear onto one of them.
A man tried helping the Becomer, but the poor bloke hissed when his fingers got cut up by the coarse feathers all over Mal’s body.
”Was’ wrong, Padfoot? ‘Ya injured?” another asked.
”Nnnghr,” he shook his head, one of his hands motioning for the man’s dismissal. He turned and tapped the counter, the bartender sliding him over a drink almost instantly. It was lukewarm beer, the kind that tasted like fermented piss, but it was what he needed.
Kicking it back as the room silently stared, he smacked the glass down on the counter and exhaled deeply. His shoulders rolled and stretched, muscles popping underneath from constant tension and the overuse of his silvery wings.
Hhhfff...
He needed some rest, and so that was what he did. Resting his cheek on a padded leather bracer, he curled over the table and shut his eyes. The bar slowly got back to its usual self as that terrifying paragon of spunky neutrality passed out, resting humbly in one corner of the room.
Out like a light, no noise could wake him. It was the sort of deep sleep that had no dreams, but it did come with a sense of dread. A fire within, one that could not be quenched with water. It kept him at least somewhat lucid, but he could not know the dire truth, the nightmares that wake while we sleep and walk the earth...
For when he next opened his bleary eyes and stretched his arms over the counter, he was met with an eerie silence, and all it took was one whiff of the dank, crimson-salted air for him to realize that something was horribly wrong. It was so quiet, so eerie that he even paused to think before slowly leaning over the counter and peering down at what lay below.
His heart sank, and for the first time since the war he felt like he might lose the contents of his gut.
Danzig...
It was his chef, torn to bloody, sinewy ribbons by claws. There was also smoke in the air, which prompted him to turn his head in horror to gaze out over the pure carnage: burning piles of furnishings and fabrics, corpses of people he knew dearly strewn about everywhere. Even Moriandis lay off to one side clutching his cane, claw-marks down his gored backside.
Everything a beast could possibly do had been done; throats ripped, faces and limbs eaten off, bellies slashed, and lacerations everywhere. Pangs of anger flooded his mind, and the blame came down upon him hard. He knew who to blame. Only one person could be this wicked, and kill in this manner.
Vuhl’mathi!
He got to his feet and stumbled off the bench, hitting the floor as his legs wobbled out of emotional stress. “VUHL-MATH-I!” he screamed, souring the silence with his voice. There was so much blood in the air, so much slowly decaying death.
How could this happen? How could I sleep through something so horrible!? he shook his head, only to be stricken by another piercing ache in his temples.
This time he started to cry, silent, blinking underneath himself as he knelt there bowed over. Ahhhgh!
Everything around him died. He blamed himself, and for a brief moment he thought he was having another nightmare. He held his breath until his heart began to pound, sickening himself as he inhaled more of that air christened with the vital fluids of some of his closest companions.
It took a while, but he did come to grips with the fact that this was reality, and he rose to take inventory of the lost lives. He couldn’t count very well to begin with, and the state of his mind made it impossible, but he found and dragged each of the original Thirteen Downtrodden to the middle of the room, kicking a piece of burning furniture over them to burn their bodies as if that would make things any better.
Naturally, a cold bitterness set in. He knew he could never get close to anyone ever again. This whole venture was a mistake... these people were weak, they could not survive those who sought to hurt him through them. He spent the better portion of a Break choking on smoke and chewing on his steely claws before finally stepping towards the door and shutting that part of his life behind him. Like he always did, he ran, only this time he found himself streaking through the dark stones searching for a fight. That mind-meddling headache went away as he turned towards his anger, giving him a sense of clarity.
”VUHL’MATHI!” he bellowed, his voice cracking.
Over and over again, he yelled, on a hunt for that monster.
”I will end you. Coward!”
”P-padfoot?” a shy, weary voice peeped as Mal raged at a crossroads.
Mal turned around and glared down at a young teen, a thief he’d saved the brother of. That brother was one of the Thirteen, and just seeing him caused Mal to snap. He put his clawed hands upon his head and dropped to his knees, bawling and punching the ground with whined, dismal pleas for it all to end.
”What’s going on, Padfoot? Padfoot?” the boy shifted uncomfortably, glancing off to the side towards the tunnel that would take him there.
”I couldn’t... I wasn’t awake... and... and,” Mal got to his feet and started running. He couldn’t stand how fate always stabbed him where it hurt the most. The boy stood in silence, confused, but eventually ran off towards that grisly scene.
Ymiden 20th-38th
When he saw his brother burning in the fire, the boy lost it just as Mal had. In the Trials to come, he told everyone it was Padfoot who turned on the tavern-goers, and that it was Padfoot who killed his brother. This was the same boy that first spun the tale, and now he was the first to slander it.
And Mal, meanwhile, hid out in the Underground in some far corner, lost to all including himself. Every passing Trial, a creature emerged from his slumbering, weakened-by-malaise form and wandered off to hunt the citizens of Etzos, for in its fury all were guilty, and all were to blame. They all knew this Hyx to be Padfoot, and soon the people took to calling him Redfoot, because at the scene of every gruesome bloodbath there was a set of pawprints leading into the underground, prints all were too afraid to follow, for they knew the size of the beast.
