#salmonid

Character owners (in order):

gaypuppycat - Queperly - pic - pic - windmoth

My AC has been fixed btw

My sword and my father's cast-iron skillet clash as I practice my fighting skills with my father, the only cohock on these islands who is willing to train me, albeit reluctantly. He doesn't admit it, but I can tell.

“Boy, how could you have been so stupid?” my father barks, his exposed tongue flapping all over the place.

I had told him about what happened during my failed hunt before practice, and to say he wasn't pleased would be an understatement. I can tell that he's channeling all his seething rage into his attacks; he's been quicker to attack than usual today.

I was shocked when I saw that the pilot accompanying those musicians was alive. I was so certain that the helicopter crash had killed him; it nosedived into the beach, after all. But apparently, it did not. Although I had spied on the pilot and his companions all day and was so certain about what I was going to do when the time was right, nothing would have prepared me for what that inkling woman had in store for me. Yes, although I fortunately do have a backup plan in case my weapons alone aren’t enough to slay intruders, not once did I consider that an intruder could summon creatures of their own to aid them in battle.

“Father, I had to do something! They had backup! If I faced those eels alone, I would have been splatted!” I say in a desperate attempt to explain myself.

“Pathetic! I’ve seen you kill inkfish using firearms with that sword of yours! You would have been just fine without backup!” my father continues. He attempts to hit me, but I jump over his skillet.

“First of all, how do you expect me to attack quickly moving eels flying in the air with my shortsword?” I refute. Again, my father attempts to strike me, but this time I block him. “Second of all, none of those inkfish had firearms with them! The only thing close to a weapon they had was the pilot’s hammer!”

“How many smallfry did you summon?” my father growls, completely ignoring me. My father’s piercing, scarlet eyes stared deep into the depths of my soul, searing holes into it at the same time.

“I-I don't know,” I stammer, struggling to maintain the block. “There were so many of them… but only fifty of them survived the attack…”

“WHAT?!” my father roars. He overcomes my block and sends me hurdling towards the wall. 

*WHAM!*

As my back hits it, I let out a loud grunt and hear a pop. I feel a razor sharp pain in my shoulder. My short sword lodges itself into the ground. My father gets closer. “DYING IN BATTLE MAY BE AN HONOR FOR US SALMONIDS, BUT THIS IS RIDICULOUS! ALLOWING THAT MANY SMALLFRY TO DIE ALL AT ONCE IS UNACCEPTABLE!” 

“Father, I’m sorry! I know I might have summoned more smallfry than I might have needed, but it won't happen again!” I exclaim, cradling my arm. “I swear!”

“Oh, it better not…” he growls.

“Father, I don't think we're not equipped to handle these inkfish. An inkfish summoning a bed of eels like that is unlike anything I’ve seen before from intruders from the mainland…” I say.

“‘Not equipped to handle these inkfish’ my ass,” my father says. “You have abilities that us salmonids don't. You’re useful. That reasoning was what your mother used to convince our superiors to keep you alive twenty-six years ago. Had she not, boy, you would have been fed to our young ages ago.”

I hate when my father uses that anecdote to make me listen to him. Mother never did that.

My father then proceeds to go on a minutes long rant about why I need to be a diligent hunter (as if I wasn’t one already) and how giving up to the inkfish would be a sign of weakness (as if I didn’t know that already). I’ve heard this speech dozens of times over and its the same every time. At this point, I don’t listen to the details. Can’t this man see I’m trying everything in my power to make our people proud? Regardless, I attempt to look like I’m listening in hopes that he’ll finish sooner. My mind goes to other things: weapons I want to buy, what I’m going to cook for dinner, my next plan for hunting down the pilot and his companions. Anything to block out my father.

“So, either you do your job, or we’ll turn you into squid rings.” he says as he ends the rant. “Now, get up, boy. Let me pop that arm back in for you.”

I do as he says and, without warning (as per usual), he pulls my arm hard. Soon enough, I can feel the membrane that makes up my inner arm fuse back with the membrane making up the rest of my body. The pain from before dulls, but doesn't go away entirely.

“There. Better?” my father asks, not an ounce of concern in his voice. I nod. “Well, then, I suppose it's time for a break.”

As my father exits the training area, I stay in place, rubbing my newly restabilized shoulder to further dull the pain. After the soreness becomes somewhat tolerable, I pull my blade out of the dirt flooring and examine it. It sustained some damage- whether it be from combat with my father or being driven blade first into the ground is unknown to me- but it wasn’t unrepairable. I look behind me at the wall and find a vaguely… me… shaped dent in it.

My father's voice still reverberates through my head. I wish he could realize how hard I’m trying to make our people proud, all the effort I put into refining my skills. What will it take for them to finally realize this? Perhaps I’m asking too much from them. I am but a weapon, after all. Weapons don't ask for respect. At most, they’d just ask to be used and cared for.

…

… I should stop thinking this. Right now, I need to focus on taking care of those pesky inkfish once and for all. I have a job to do.

Spamton g. Spamton

Shoot a big pipis

Open your mouth wide

For my salmon piss

Dont search up my name

On chumblr.com

Or else you will see

Character owners (on Art fight!!):

Pic - avlon - Pic - Pic - windmoth - Pic