we have caterators, but what about lizarderators?
some thoughts below about what this would be like as an AU
Set before the mass ascension. Most of them are first-generation purposed beings. I imagine the ancients used them much like we use dogs, having a variety of reasons they might create them.
Moon & Pebbles:
Pebbles has the rot, Hunter-style, but it is triggered later in life and isn't as aggressive as Hunters. Moon and Pebbles are created by an iterator, and Moon looked after Pebbles after his creation. Moon could be either cyan or blue, but wouldn't change her storyline much. There's an incident that causes them to run away and make their way down towards the surface. During the incident, or as they are on their Journey, Pebbles and Moon get split up and Moon gets hurt, and it was Pebbles' fault.
Suns:
I couldn't decide between yellow or red. Yellow!Suns, for some reason or other, have lost their pack. Finds Pebbles and eventually helps him find Moon and NSH, they end up becoming 'pack'. Similarly to canon, becomes close to FP, and also accidentally triggers his rot. For Red!Suns, it's very similar, but instead of a 'looking for pack' storyline, it focuses more on trying to overcome their red-lizard violent instincts. NSH helps a lot with that, after they meet him.
NSH:
He's a green lizard and was kept for company. His ancient would dress him up (not included in the picture, but he does have his purple bow!). After meeting Moon, he is convinced to follow her down to the surface and helps her find her brother.
UI:
They are a show-lizard (which is pretty taboo) and their ancient takes them to underground shows to show them off. They pretend to be pedigree, but they are actually a stray - but their appearance tends to convince people. Somehow involved in the incident that causes Pebbles and Moon to run away, and reluctantly follows their path afterwards.
Wind:
I just really wanted to draw a train lizard and it fit Wind the best. I made them leucistic to fit their "grey" name. White, however, might be the more typical type for them. Not much thought on their history yet. Perhaps they live on the surface already and help the 'house-lizards' survive?
SOS:
Again, not really developed right now. Perhaps created by the same iterator as Moon and Pebbles, either for the same purpose as they were or to hunt down and retrieve them?
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flat side of a blade.
summary: Another short piece with my MC, Qilan, and Chase from @shepherds-of-haven, reflecting on their relationship together, their relationship with violence, and their similarities as people!
notes: 1.5k words, spoilers for chase's backstory, mentions of blood/violence
Qilan is seven the first time her father places a dagger in her hands. A real dagger, Ket-forged steel with a wicked shine, sharpened to a fine point. A sturdy handle, slotting perfectly into her chubby first. Pristine, black, shining.
But her father’s eyes are nothing but sad when he guides her grip, adjusting her fingers on the handle for a proper handling position. He’s a warrior, a leader. The best fighter in their mercenary company, with hair as wild as the sea spray crashing against the jagged rocks of the coastline. Her father, as far as Qilan is concerned, is the strongest man in the world.
“You have to promise me something, Qi,” her father says. “You have to remember what it means to take a human’s life.”
“Okay, father,” she asks, obedient to the last.
He kneels, crushes her shoulders like bird talons, urgency lacing his voice. “You can never forget the price of taking a life. To kill someone, so you can survive. The world is a cruel place, Qi, but you don’t have to be cruel. The things I’m going to teach you, that you have to learn… they’re not to be taken lightly. A blade is a tool, defined only by its master’s intentions. Do you understand?” Her bones creak under his tightening grip, but she dares not wince. She can only clutch the dagger tighter until her knuckles are white and the imprint of the hilt presses red lines into her palms. “Do you understand? Promise me.”
“I understand, father,” she says. It’s not quite the truth, but it’s not a lie, either. She doesn’t understand, but she wants to, at least. Not because the idea of honor means anything to her yet, vague term that it is, but because whatever it is her father needs from her, she could never bear to hurt him by rejecting it.
Her own serious face gleams like a ghost in the blade’s black edge. A human life. Could it really be worth as much as her father’s trust in her?
–
Chase is seven when his father forces a blade into his palm, a heavy dagger that rests uncomfortably in his grip, handles still too wide for his fingers to grasp.
“What is this, captain?” he asks, trying to spin it in his palm like a toy. One stern look stills his attempts, and the restrained energy quivers down to his toes. He never calls the captain “father,” as much as he wants to; it seems to upset the man somehow, though Chase can’t quite put a finger on why. But to have a father at all is a blessing, so he swallows any complaints.
“It’s a new job I want you to pick up for me, Chase,” his father says. “You’re going to learn to use that. There are some rats aboard, and I want you to help me handle them.”
“Rats?” Chase says slowly. “Why don’t we get a cat to handle them, then? It would be easier than trying to hunt ‘em ourselves.”
“Hah! Isn’t that a suggestion? Chase, these are the sort of rats that can’t be handled by a cat, do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t want you to ask me any questions. I just want you to listen to me. I’m going to be teaching you some necessary skills in the upcoming weeks. Just do as I say, and make me proud. Do you understand?”
Chase stands a little straighter. “I do! I’m ready, captain.”
It’s an honor his father trusts him to handle any important tasks at all. And… maybe… if Chase does well, then his father will be proud of him, and pat his head, and tell Chase he’s proud of him. How hard can his father’s tasks be?
–
The truth of the matter is that humans are a fragile mess of nerves and arteries and meat, and one cut is often more than enough to sever the thin thread of their lives.
Sometimes, that severance is messy, despite his best efforts.
Blood stains his clothes, and his favorite daggers are coated in gore, the remains of some poor fool still clinging to their blades. Even if he cleans them, it’s a sin that Chase will never be fully able to wash off, no matter what he does. A reminder that he’ll always be that little boy, wielding weapons he isn’t old enough to grasp, chasing after the ghosts of men who will never be satisfied.
Every strike brings him back to that time, every cut of his blade dangerously close to reopening old, raw wounds which Chase has carefully sewn closed.
He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, not unless he can make a proper show out of it, another stroke to the masterpiece of his legacy.
But somehow, despite his careful steps and his calculated path, there’s one person who smashes his plans to smithereens, as she always seems to do.
Qilan finds him, as he’s slinking out of the shadows, towards the Shepherd’s compound. There are never any words with her, never any explanations. She only glances at the mess on his body, and tugs him towards a secluded corner, away from the common area, so he can wash away the blood, away from prying eyes.
Chase can’t tell whenever Qilan’s sharp intuition is a blessing, or a curse.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says, pink blood pooling into the mud. They’re at a courtyard pump, and Qilan watches as he runs water through his clothes, his hair until the water is clear again. He’s taken off his shirt, and wrings it out. “I get the appeal of seeing me like this, but–”
“Your hands are cut,” she interrupts lightly. “You grip your dagger too tightly, do you know that?”
She takes one of his hands without warning, tracing her thumb over faint scars on his wet palm. Her touch is warm against the cool water, and he wants to jerk back.
“It’s a force of habit, from when I learned it,” he says. “The blade was too big for me back then.”
A pulse of warmth, like a spring tide, flows through his hand, as his little cuts close and his skin sews itself back together. Healing magic.
“Old habits are hard to break. My father taught me to wield the dagger, and he would always nitpick my form,” she says. She runs another thumb over the back of his palm, as if surveying her new work, the unblemished skin, the cuts gone. Her fingers send shots of sunlight through his veins with each touch.
“Your old man was Ket, right? No wonder you’re so good. I always thought your form was a bit like Blade’s.”
“It might have been because of that,” she concedes. She still hasn’t pulled away. “Even for a Ket, he was strict. He didn’t want me to take people’s lives lightly.”
He should pull away now. There’s no reason to hold onto her any longer. But his hand, traitorous thing, won’t move. “How heroic of him, and of you.”
She laughs lightly. “I never had such good intentions. I just didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“I think that’s understandable,” Chase says.
Neither of them say anything for a while. What ghosts has she conjured up? It’s hard to tell when Qilan’s face is always pulled into a gentle smile. For some people, it might be reassuring, but Chase sees it for what it is: a mask, carefully calculated to set people at ease and to hoard her secrets.
He knows better than to pry, to peek at what lies underneath. Her smile is a fortress, guarding all her secrets like precious gems. Knowledge and information, he knows, are the most powerful currency in the world, and she knows better than to flaunt her wealth.
They’re alike in that aspect. Knowing where to draw their lines, to tread carefully along each other’s boundaries.
“By the way, you can always come find me if you need more healing. I’d never turn down a chance to get close and personal with you.” She smiles again, all seriousness vanishing like snow under sunlight. It’s always one step forward, two steps back with Qilan, and this is her way of smoothing over the tension.
“What if I get hurt just to spend more time with you?”
“I wouldn’t complain, Captain Trinaeste,” she says. “You know where to find me.” She spins on her heel to leave, but pauses. “You know, a dagger is one of the most difficult weapons to wield. It requires you to get close to your target, and the margin of error is wide.”
“It’s easier if you’re used to it,” he says lightly.
“That’s true. It would be difficult to try to pick up a different weapon now. But I’m glad to be with someone who understands what it’s like to fight with one.”
And then Qilan is gone, as if she was never there in the first place, and all Chase has left is the lingering warmth in his hand. But even that, too, will fade away with the water and the passing of time. The only thing that can possibly last is the mark of a blade, biting deep.
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