Saun 21, 717
There was a strange semblance of order that had integrated itself in the heart of the hybrid throughout his time upon Idalos, and though he had long since abandoned any pretense of following the law, he still attempted to hold to an internal code of conduct. This was not entirely due to a desire to be a more moral or upright person, but rather because it presented him in a far better light to those under him. After all, if he were a consistently corrupt and arbitrary leader, and he exacted a blood price from his minions for even the slightest of failings, then he would be seen to be too cruel for proper rulership, and Noth had an innate dislike at the idea of waking up to the presence of swirling cloaks and raised daggers.
Rather frustratingly, that intentional submission to the ideals of order meant that he was far more compelled to keep his agreements than others of a more chaotic nature. Admittedly, the fiend was not literally fettered to the letter of the law, and should the benefits of breaking an agreement far outweigh the benefits of keeping it, and if he were certain that he would not be caught in his endeavor, then he was not at all forced to keep his word. He had long since decided to be a villain after all, and with that came the freedom to choose what was right and wrong on a whim.
That particular outlook on the nature of his character, and the not-so-subtle threats insinuated by the Glass-Eyed Doctor were the reason that he was not skulking about the dark and dreary Underground in search of a suitable victim. The man had healed one of his subordinates; Ears, after he had been assaulted randomly by an assailant with a particular disdain for mutants. In return, the Doctor had stated that he would require payment for the operation, and had made it quite clear that he wished to receive the dead corpse of a mutant for his own grotesque and macabre operations. For all that the man spoke of being unable to actually commit the act of murder, he apparently lacked any qualms over the civility of sending an assassin to carry out his own work.
The twilight hybrid himself felt little respect towards the savage activities and their orchestrators that had been plaguing the city for the past several trials. The entire spectacle reeked of fear. Fear for things that people didn’t understand, fear that they would be made obsolete in the face of those with apparent abilities or differences, fear of that which was not them. While it was true that a sufficient amount of fear would eventually become adoration, the mutants did not inspire quite that level of superiority, and instead simply awakened the awareness of others that they were not all that they could be, and so they asserted their dominance by hounding those different from themselves.
Noth felt no ill-will towards the mutants, but then again, he had been raised his entire life understanding that there was nothing wicked in being different from others. As terrible a monster that he was, he could not perceive himself scourging someone for the sin of being unique. After all, were not the most valuable items unique in their creation? That did not mean that he sided with them throughout the conflict, as evidenced enough by the fact that he was currently prowling about, seeking to slide his knife into the side of one, or snuff out their life with a quiet step and a firm grasp.
The hybrid trod onwards through the Underground, avoiding a nearby puddle of water which reeked of the incessant and putrid plague that often accompanied poverty. Crimson eyes passed over the presence of huddled forms, hidden away in the dark corners of the city as though they were nothing more than vermin. Lone torches clasped tightly in the hands of few warded away the darkness, and with it, the presence of the Prince; he had little desire of being seen in his gruesome work.
There was a cry further down one of the dreadful tunnels of the Underground, and the hybrid released a sigh as it split the silence. It sounded vaguely like a woman, though it could have been a man shrieking in the throes of pain. It was somewhat difficult to discern given the relative distance of the two parties, but the hybrid determined that it was worth investigation, even if it was simply the workings of muggers plying their trade.
Muggers plying their trade rarely expected to be mugged in kind.
He crept onwards, his hand brushing gently against the nearest wall of a building, feeling the crudeness of its fabrication as it brushed against his feathered fingers, loose dust attaching to them with eager tenacity. Stories were told by elder structures such as these; stories of blood, of poverty, of sickness, and of health. Families lived and died in homes such as these, downtrodden in the muck and the filth, never given an opportunity to rise above their station.
These… these ones, those who had never truly tasted the fruits of freedom would become his soldiers. He would pit their hunger, their ambition to become anything greater than the trash hidden away in corners, and they would arise with him in glorious and vile revolution against those upper powers which deemed it necessary to keep them locked away.
But not yet. Not now, he revoked the thought from consciousness as quickly as it had appeared, focusing instead on the growing whimpers and whining of the soul ahead of him.
He had been correct in his assumption that it was a woman, though it seemed as though his initial assumption of a mugging was incorrect. The faintest flickers of nearby torchlight revealed the scene, albeit with far less accuracy than might have been visible in better lighting. The pair of abusers had been at it for some time, it seemed, if the bruises covering half of her face, and her arms were any indication. The man and woman stood above the prone woman, the former lashing out at her with a hard kick every time she attempted to scramble to her feet.
In her own right, the hybrid assumed that she was a fighter, because she didn’t allow the blows stop her from trying to rise, but even he knew that there was a point when it became best to simply bend the knee. The way that she clutched at the side of her seemed odd considering the more recent blows were laid upon her chest, but he traced the blood still running down her head to her ear, apparently being cupped in her hand.
Ears rarely bled that badly unless they had been removed. Crimson eyes scanned the floor for any signs of the prospective item, and lay upon a lone object about the size of a small stone, hidden away in the dark except for a silhouette.
“Mitchell, look at ‘er! Crawling on t’e floor like she’s a mouse.” The older woman laughed in a witches’ cackle, condemning the wounded creature before her.
“Aye, well she already ‘ad the ears for it!” He spoke with cruel agreement. The fellow strode over to the woman, stomping rather fiercely down on one of her outstretched hands which elicited a great cracking noise reminiscent of the sound a twig makes when it is snapped. The younger woman screamed in pain, attempting to pull the limb away from the presence of the fellow, but he refused to release the broken hand from underfoot.
The Prince simply observed from the shadows, an observer in someone else’s tragedy. He watched as they beat and battered her, because he had no reason to intervene in the matter. She was a mutant, and his objective required that she be killed for his purposes. The pair of abusers would suit that purpose well enough… and yet… he watched the way they went about their work with such gleeful pleasure, and it sickened him.
For all of their middle-age, they had clearly not mellowed throughout their lives at all. They thought savage thoughts, and performed savage deeds. The abusers were little more than animals in their act… no… monsters. As they strode over the poor and pitiful girl and continued to slowly beat her to death, they took on the role of monsters, and the hybrid simply could not allow such behavior to persist.
They would learn rather quickly that there was always a bigger monster.
The twilight hybrid strode forth from the darkness with purpose, stopping just inside of the presence of the light.
“My my, what pleasure do the roaches engage in…” He called from behind them, glaring into their souls with his crimson eyes.
“Oi… uhh. We’re just… teachin’ ‘er some manners, is all!” The woman called out, shifting her body in a vain attempt at hiding the subject of their derisive mockery from sight.
“Ah. I see. Well, I believe she’s learned enough of a lesson, don’t you?” He growled, his very voice a threat to their existence as it rolled across the short distance between them. It seemed rather evident that disagreement would result in something terrible.
“O’ course. Why don’t we jus’ forget the ‘ole thing and go get some drinks, eh pal?” The man strode forward with his offer, his palms outstretched in the clear signs of someone seeking peace, though the slight tremble that ran through them was evidence enough of his apprehension.
Noth lashed out rather suddenly with his foot, his talons catching the fellow fully in the chest, and he felt them sink past cloth and flesh in a decisive stab. The fellow heaved and coughed in sudden pain, lurching backwards as his hands clutched at the relatively shallow wounds that had been incurred on him.
“She might be done with lessons, but I believe there is one more to teach you.”
“You can go rot with Vri, slaver!” The woman shrieked at him, rushing over to assist her spouse as he struggled to regain his composure.
“It does seem as though you’re missing where this encounter is going, though… you’re quite close, dear.” He spoke with a relative calm, gradually removing the adamantite mace from his side, and hefting it rather heartily before him.
He drew back his arm as he stepped forward, bringing the mace forward with familiar motion towards the man’s head. He flinched, unused to the workings of war, and brought up his hands to protect himself. There was a crunch as the fingers in his hands were summarily broken by the blow, and he let out a guttural cry that was quickly silenced as the next blow hammered in on the side of his neck, crackling it with a dull thud, and sending the fellow sprawling in a gurgling and choking mess.
The woman screamed bloody murder as she fell to her knees, staring into the dying eyes of her husband as he twitched painfully on the ground.
“Have you ever heard the story of the Mirror on the Mountain?” He began casually, as though he were simply discussing the weather with her, and hadn’t just killed her love.
He decided rather quickly that it was shock that kept her silent as he began his recounting of the story, though there were the occasional gulps and sniffles as tears poured down her face.
“You see. Once upon a time, there was a mirror on a mountain rumored to hold great and terrible power. It was made known to the nearest kingdom, and they dispatched an army to destroy it. They camped at the bottom of the hill, and sent forth their fiercest warrior to annihilate it. The warrior was strong and mighty, responsible for the deaths of many foes, but when he struck the mirror with his great Warhammer, and he was felled in an instant.”
The hybrid shook his head once at the foolishness of the fellow. “Next, the army dispatched their most ingenious strategist. The man was brilliant! He could solve puzzles in seconds, and had won more battles than could be counted upon both fingers. He plotted an epic and complicated plan which would result in a boulder being dropped upon the mirror, but when he neared the lever that would activate his plan, he stumbled and fell into a pit filled with spikes that had been placed by the mirror. Outwitted in an instant.”
“The army struggled heartily trying to figure out a way of defeating the mirror, but then, a small servant girl decided to go take a look at it. She looked at the mirror, and saw herself in it, and suddenly understood exactly what she needed to do. She stepped up to it, and gave it a hug, and told sweet stories to it, and performed kind acts towards it, and for each event, the mirror offered a kindness in return, protecting the kingdom from terror, feeding the hungry, granting comfort to the inconsolable.”
Harsh eyes settled upon the woman.
“Do you know what the moral of that story is, witch?”
“You reap what you sow.”
The mace made quick work of her, and finally the hybrid stepped over to the barely breathing mutant, staring down at her with some admitted pity. She seemed bruised and battered and broken, but it seemed reasonable enough to conclude that she would survive her wounds.
He knelt down beside her, cradling her head in his feathered fingers with some semblance of compassion.
“You’re… a hero.” She whispered through gritted teeth, her face red with long-suffered agony. Still, the admiration in her eyes was notable, and the hybrid had to force himself to look away as he responded.
“More like a predator marking his territory, dear.”
“Oh?” She replied, apparently confused at the meaning of that. He glanced at her remaining ear, confirming that it possessed an animal-like fur covering over it; Mutant. The twilight hybrid brushed his hands pleasantly over her cheeks as he cradled her, breaking her neck before the realization of his statement could ruin her hope.
With remarkable gentleness, he arose from his seated position, and stepped over to the corpse of the man. He had heard vague mentions of the hand-prints coated in blood, and it seemed almost fitting to mark the crime as their own. Carefully, he placed the man's bloody and broken hand upon the nearest wall, giving the impression of a hand though it was missing several fingers where they had been broken too badly to properly make contact with the stone.
The bodies of the abusers were left there in the alleyway, their pockets looted for negligible valuables, and the hybrid stoically drug his prey home, using his secret path to the Underground to avoid the patrols of the Black Guard. When he delivered the payment to the Glass-Eyed Doctor, he seemed pleased, and that was enough for the monster.
His obligation paid, he went home, and slept, his thoughts whirring over the transpiring, and… he made note of the lack of guilt he felt over his actions.
