The monster keeper

"I would've sold this beast already if it wasn't for the beauty of the sheds."

Grenade manages to get close enough without the monster noticing, close enough to bite, so he sinks his teeth into his bandaged ankle. But— not enough to break skin, and he swears under his breath.

The reaction from the monster is steadfast, but he almost sees it in slow motion. The way he firstly tenses up, the sound of his knees popping as he crouches down and backhands him across the face. It's strong enough that it sends Grenade rolling a few meters away, and when the monster approaches again, he can't help the fear seizing his guts at the sheer savagery of his eyes.

He lifts up his head by the hair, the grip so strong it makes his scalp feel numb. Tears prickle at his eyes— pain, rage, frustration, Grenade doesn't know anymore. He does know, though, that the failed attemp will have very dire consequences.

"Consider yourself lucky that I am not wearing any rings."

He will not. Grenade spits blood at the monster's face, blood that he can only hope originates from biting his tongue or his cheeks too hard. There is a beat of silence, from the monster, from him, and from the crowd too. For a brief moment, Grenade is invaded by a sick satisfaction that he managed to leave these people speechless.

And the the monster stands up, dropping his head suddently enough that he doesn't have time to react and hold it up. His jaw hits the ground and leaves a sharp ache.

And then, as his vision swims while he tries to reach out to grab at the monster's ankle, he is hit with the belt again. Even though he is prepared, he screams this time again too, because the strike was with the buckled part, and it bites into his skin like a knife. A knife would be better.

But Grenade knows the monster would not inflict torture so blatantly.

He does not manage to move again when the monster is done beating him. That is just sheer humiliation— it was, what? Five strikes?

"This naga has time and time again refused to behave. I don't typically deal out punishment so crassly, but there are creatures that just have to be beaten into submission, if not obedience."

The crowd cheers with sanguinary glee, and Grenade does manage to summon the strenght to curl up. And that way he stays, until the monster crouches down by him again, just for a moment, and whispers, low enough that he isn't heard,

"Guess who will suffer the consequences?"

A wave of panic overtakes him, and he stifles sobs.

"My dear patrons, I apologise for your lack of input so far! Areli does not do well without pre planned scripts, and this beast is impossible to tame. Perhaps, the next show may have more influence of you! So tell me,"

He climbs up the ladder, stepping onto the plataform. Areli sits there, right on the edge, with his wings open wide— probably for the sake of balance. He watches for some time, peeking above its wings. Areli is not doing a bad job per se— Kayiō just seems to be a bit restless.

The new collar is black, and the red ribbon being braided into its hair is attatched to it. Amaranthine has to recognise that Areli did do a good job in terms of tension; it's just at right, wrapped around around the top of the braid thrice before disappearing behind and then shining on the braid.

The scales of the red naga did have some use after all.

"Now, dear," chides Amaranthine, when the mer begins to shift around a bit— maybe result of having its hair pulled too much? Ah, no matter. "Don't give Areli a hard time."

He waves his hand, and Areli flies away to wherever. He isn't particularly concerned with keeping the angel in check, it's loyal. Areli finds that he belongs at the palm of his hand, and Amaranthine can't not reward that kind lf loyalty. He won't even punish it for not finishing the task he gave it.

He finishes braiding the ribbon into Kayiō's hair, not without holding the mer in place at certain moments, but it doesn't take too long. Then, comes the net around his arms and torso. Amaranthine made sure that it was made with a soft material— after all, an injuried mer is of no use. It would be a shame for such a beautiful creature to be incapacitated by string cuts, or unable to do anything significant until they heal. He ties the net behind Kayiō's back, and it straightens its back for a moment.

It's tight enough that Kayiō feels somewhat restrained without truly being so, and that is something frustrating, that weird in-between, and the reminder of the nets that had once served to take from him the freedom of the sea.

Then, the dark red-purple silks— or a silk-like hydrophobic material, Amaranthine doesn't really know, draped and secured around his tail, bell on the edges of the cloth. Much heavier than the previous decorations, he muses.

He has Areli bring him a bird, and makes a cut on his leg. He watches with satisfaction as the first drops of blood on the water have the mer's eyes zero in on the bird, and as it leaps out of the tank, all the bells making a satisfying noise, and catches the thing, tearing it apart with animalistic glee.

Hm, perhaps Kayiō got hungry during the travel. No matter. As the mer eats the rest of the bird, Amaranthine leaves to check on the rest of the creatures.

Taglist: @enigmawriteswhump

"You asked for a defiant beast, and here I deliver!" With his free hand, Amaranthine gestures at himself. His clothes are simple— high waisted cotton trousers, not very tight, with his long black hair tied into a high ponytail. A short sleeved shirt with what seems similiar to an archer's chestguard, and bandages wrapped around his wrists and ankles. "You must excuse my clothing, of course. It's much too impractical to wear lavish robes, dealing with such an unpredictable little beast."

Grenade lunges at the monster, looking to bite his leg. Maybe, if he can poison him, if he can see his veins turn black as his body falls apart from the inside out, maybe—

Maybe if he can show that to Zephyr, maybe, his dearest will wake up, maybe he'll be able to speak again, maybe his eyes will regain the ferocity that they used to carry, maybe his body will have time to heal and everything will be okay again.

Instead, the monster dodges to the side. And then, the belt strikes down on Grenade's back, and though he usually keeps quiet when he's whipped, he wasn't ready now— this isn't a deliberate beating, something aimed to break, but a punishment. Retaliation. He screams.

Grenade feels the blood roll down his back, the warmth that incenses his hatred for the monster, and he tries to wrap his tail around his legs to make him fall, but before his can, the monster chides "Areli, up!"

And the angel comes out of nowhere and gracefully picks up the monster, putting him down on a plataform, and flying up again. Grenade mouths to it, "Traitor". He doesn't watch it for long, sickened that Areli could just stay there sitting on the perch out of sight of the audience, like a stupid little bird, at the monster's beck and call.

"See? This is what I mean."

Amaranthine looks down at the naga, smiling condescendingly at it. Then stands up on the plataform, and jumps down. Before Grenade can do anything, Amaranthine kicks it down, plants a foot on its back, and tugs on the chain, forcing its head up to looks at the audience.

Grenade does try to get his hands on the collar, though the monster is not tugging hard enough to completely choke him. It makes it difficult to breath.

"This naga is one of my oldest beasts, and yet, it still refuses to break. It's rather annoying." Clamor arises, and Amaranthine laughs along with the crowd. "Yes, my dear patrons, I hear you. I could sell or trade it for an easier dear, couldn't I? And leave this one in more experienced hands."

The monster drops the chain, and despite himself, Grenade lets his head fall onto the floor, heaving for breath.

"I have given up on taming this beast, and there is only one reason I keep it around." Amaranthine steps away from the naga. "And it's because of its sheds."

He smiles, raising his arms up as the crowd goes quiet. Grenade tries to get up and attack once again, but Amaranthine kicks its side with force, and it's just left writhing on the floor in pain.

"My usual robes— the black part, is decorated with this dear's sheds. It is, of course, a precious material." Amaranthine spins once to look at the whole crowd. "I have entertained the thought of going hunting for another black naga, but I have better things to do."

The chains that keep him bound to the wall, cut into his wrists, have him suspended against it. He does not avert his gaze from the monster. He cannot show weakness to this, this thing, someone so utterly sadistic and disgusting. Most may not notice, but Grenade does, the faint scent of blood every time he sticks his tongue out.

He cannot begin to imagine what he does to the other creatures, but— but he doesn't have to.

From the sneer, his expression transforms into sheer panic, as the monster approaches his dearest.

Zephyr had been a warrior, the protector between both of them. He was the one that for so long fought off hunters and collectors like the monster, the one that kept their freedom intact as they lived.

Now there they lie, not even restrained, just curled up in a corner. The monster had torn out a handful of his scales, in an attemp to break him. And it did— it did break him. He was barely even responsive anymore, the only reaction Grenade could ever get out of him were pained sounds.

He isn't sure Zephyr knows how to speak anymore.

And that is why, why he refuses to break, why he cannot let the monster subjugate him. That is why he will resist until death.

"Please, not him!" A shiver runs down his spine as the monster smiles at him a smile that is sharp as a knife. "Not him."

The monster shows his fangs, his smile becoming sharper still.

"Perhaps, if you behave," Grenade can barely supress a flinch when the monster nudges dearest's body with his foot, and cracks the belt on his hands. He doesn't need to look to know that the belt is made with Zephyr's dark green scales. "I will leave it alone."

And Grenade cannot help the rage that seethes within him, the hatred that the monster insists on calling them all by "it". Not even Areli escapes that, the monster's favourite, one that defers to him in an utterly pathetic manner. Though they all have heard him call the angel by "him" in one occasion or the other.

Grenade would be jealous if he didn't have so much spite towards Areli.

As the monster releases his wrists from the chains, and locks one around his neck, he does tug. He should behave, but the image of Zephyr lying there missing half his scales does nothing but incense the anger that seems to consume his every wake moment.

He can only be grateful, when the monster somehow tugs him out of the cell he and Zephyr are kept on, that the collar around his neck is not meant to be a choker.

Grenade can barely tame his rage when he is taken to the center of the stage, and a blinding light shines down on him and the monster.

"Dearest patrons, meet one of my oldest little beasts— Grenade!"

The floor begins to spread open, and as it does, Areli gracefully shoots up with a strong swipe of his wings, and dives in a swift spiral that renders him to a blur. Amaranthine does not mind the unsteady ground beneath his feet— he raises his arm, and it grabs him by it, keeping him in the air long enough for a plataform to rise, putting him down on it.

A dome of water, clear as glass, that does not block the view of the arena, rises. With it, rise too, fire-clad obstacles, flaming and bright, and somehow, both, beneath the floor, a burning net of fire and beneath a tank of water.

"Holy water," Amaranthine states, "And hellfire. Though Areli cannot be harmed to the same degree by these as an angel or a demon, on account of being neither, he can be harmed, on account of being both."

Areli looked up at Amaranthine with entranced, compliant eyes. He leaned his head back just the smallest bit, to get more, when Amaranthine genty ran his fingers through its hair. His other hand, that rests on his wing, is painful, as it tries to keep the precarious balance of keeping the pain from becoming incapacitating, and keeping its wings spread open, so that the patrons may see them.

"If you do good, there is no need for you to be hurt."

Areli nods at that. Though Master's punishments are typically fair and deserved, they are harsh, and unpredictable. Areli feels tranquil when it knows exactly what it must do to avoid Master's punishment, maybe to even be rewarded.

As Amaranthine makes a spinning movement with his hand, Areli shoots up into the air, flying in circles, fast and blurry.

Amaranthine taps his foot on the floor, making an odd, clack-tinkling noise, like a bell mixed with the sound of the wood of his footwear tapping on the floor, and then, Areli stops his circling, and begins to fly rapidly through the loops of fire and bettween the burning columns.

Once, maybe, or twice, his wing touches upon the dome of water, but Areli doesn't react to the burn. It doesn't, fortunately, hurt itself in the fire, even when the obstacles have it flying low enough that it can feel the heat of the burning net on his legs and belly, he behaves. He continues on, guided by the sound of Master's violin.

Areli looks down at him, just for a second, watching with awe the graceful way in which he spins around on the plataform, his violin neatly beneath his chin, lost in the rhythm.

As he hears a higher cord, his cue, Areli flies to the middle or the arena, changing the direction abruptly. The music from the violin becomes higher, more urgent, as it shoots up, and wraps his wings around himself, just long enough to pass through the small circular opening at the top of the dome, but not long enough to lose the momentum and fall back through the water.

Then, with a powerful swipe of its wings, Areli continues to fly up, up, until it's just a little point in the sky, and then back. Back, as its wings still and wrap around itself, falling, spinning, in a vertical line, back through the opening in the water like the fallen angel it is.

And just as it is about to pass through the net of hellfire and plunge into the holy water, Areli's wings open wide, and with a pirouette, it lands on its knees just in the middle of the plataform. It keeps its head low, resisting the urge to look to Master for reassurance. Amaranthine circles it just for some moments, playing the last notes of his music, and then fluidly bends into a graceful bow.

He lifts his left hand up, still holding the violin, calling for the applause, which simply grows louder and louder. His right hand dives bettween Areli's feathers, touching upon the sensitive mucle of his wings. It's not as painful as it was when it rested on the wings, now his palm is simply pressed against it. There is warmth, there, despite the coldness of his hands.

"This, my dear patrons, has been Areli! This dear is compliant," In the next few words, his voice drops an octave, affectionately, "Loyal, and beautiful. You will certainly be seeing more of him!"

Areli perks up at that last word, relishing in the previlege of being someone, rather than something. That is a reward Master very seldomly gives out, and one that Areli cherishes to the bottom of his heart— to be a person, if just for some moments, rather than a thing.

"Now, dearest guests,"

Amarathine steps out of the venue for a minute. The clack clack clack of the wood of his boots on the floor resounds as the the crowd observes in expectant silence.

As he returns, the light shines on his face in a manner that makes visible two long scars. One horizontal, beneath his eyes and across his nose, and one transversal, through his left eye and the right corner of his lip.

Behind him, threads a celestial— but not quite. It's wings, though still angel-like, of white feathers and holy light, have a demonoid stucture, and are sharp at the edges. It wears a white leather collar, stitched with red thread, and half-loops made of silver at the edges, that dig into its neck.

Its long hair is pitch black, dark like an abyss, like something to get lost on. It's incredibly long, reaching the angel's knees, tied simply on the middle with an equally dark red bow.

"I ask you now, my dear patrons," Amaranthine places his hand on the back of Areli's neck, in a gesture that is almost possessive, "Have you ever seen a celestial in an in-bettween state?"

"My dear angel," His voice, in those three words, drops low, almost to a whisper, an affectionate, intimate tone, "I found it while threading through the tundra I hail from, in a terrible state. I don't usually deal with celestials or demonoids, but what kind of person would I be to leave such a dear lonely and hurt?"

The angel slowly inches closer to Amaranthine, seeking the warmth of its master, but when it begins to wrap its wings around him, Amaranthine makes a distasteful little sound, and Areli drops to its knees by his side.

"Angels, I've found, are insurmountably defiant; they're loyal to their creator, and they just won't break— in my youth, I used to dream of an army of celestials at my mercy, a beautiful collection of holy beings, but I gave up on it as soon as I attemped to train one."

Areli's head hangs low, and it's hands clutch at the fabric of its trousers, as its wings begin to close around itself. However, Amaranthine pinches the edge of the wing closest to him, and they spring open right away, revealing themselves in all their deformed glory— they are long, and covered in not quite white feathers, but have the triangular shape characteristic to demons.

The feathers don't entirely cover the bottom, and beneath them, the membrane typical to demons. It's incredibly ragged, as if a strong wisp of wind would be enough to tear it apart. When Amaranthine sets his right hand on its left wing, Areli can't quite keep back a little whimper of pain.

"And demonoids, well, to put it simply, do whatever they want. I've never even attemped to deal with one, but from hunters and collectors that did, I've gathered that they must be broken nearly to unresponsiveness to make anything out of. I'd rather not walk such a fine line bettween compliance and ruin."

Areli remains still, allowing Amaranthine to touch his achy wings, caress the feathers, let his hand dive beneath them to the sensitive membrane and bone.

"But fallen angels— fallen angels, they've been rejected and abandoned by their creator. They are desperate for purpose, for guidance. The threshold to find a fallen angel is typically around two hours, never more than a day, and they usually fall into empty places— such as the tundra I found this dear in."

Areli shivers as Amaranthine tells its story. It tries to move its wing, gently, slightly, tries to signal to him that the light touch hurts, but that earns it a stab of his nails beneath its feathers. Okay, then— Areli would be patient.

"I was clueless as to what to do, as I had never come across a fallen. I found, after taking it back to my home here, that it stayed in this in-bettween state, taking me as its new master. Fallen tend to go on to become demonoids, but, and keep in mind that I could be wrong as this experience is novelty, if they find a new master in the overworld they will remain there, as something in-bettween, something singular."

"But alas! I digress." Amaranthine spreads his arms, spins once, and bows. "Without further ado, let the show begin!"

Taglist: