The hammer descends, its red hot surface striking the red hot surface of the metal, as it glows red, then blue and green before flashing back. The male strikes the metal again, watching as it releases bright purple sparks that play along the white marble floor, leaving black marks as they bounce. He smiles, a smile that is all teeth as he watches them bounce before he lets the hammer fall with another crashing blow, its massive spherical head clanking against the metal once, twice, thrice. The hammer is dented with years of use, tiny little pock marks on its shining but greasy surface. He pushes a brown and hairy hand along his balding scalp, the blond fluff that’s surviving there taunting him silently.

He fists it tight in his six-fingered grasp and as he puts down the hammer, winces at the failure this particular sword has become. The handle is too stocky, not fine, nor long enough to be grasped by the three fingers and three thumbs of his race.  The blade is too straight, not curved back in the fighting style of his people, of the elite guard that use the blades so well. That and he’s wasted the metal by burning it too hot. But then again, he was trying something, trying to make the blade more... efficient. Sure the only thing the guard has to battle is the forces of evil but he stares at the blade and wonders, is there a more efficient way to join the spirit and the power of the sword?

He stalks back to his workbench, leaving grubby hoof prints on the marble floor, his strides large and purposeful as he seeks to inspect the myriad of golden scrolls piled and spread across its steel top. His clan has been designing swords for centuries and each generation has designed a better sword than the last, blending things like alloys and strategic imperfections with craft magic, the only type of magic in the world with no known consequence. Well no known consequence except for a lot of willpower and a lot of sweat.

This time he’d tried to go with blending a little silver in with the steel, empirical evidence from his grandfather had stated that this would affect the efficiency but slightly weaken the physical strength of the blade. Wincing again, the smith rubs his high forehead with the smaller of his thumbs, his leftmost one. His grandfather had also been a more skilled smith than him and he’d marked that it was hard to work with. He consults his diagrams on crystal lattices and fragmenting prisms tracing across the diagrams with skilled hands, pausing every once in a while to mark a line on a talc tablet with a singular nail. His blue, strikingly clear aquamarine eyes, stare at his maps and diagrams and he wonders if he’ll ever make his change to the legacy of his clan’s sword.

A horn sounds, low and throaty, telling him to come for evening meal. Potatoes and rice it’ll be, possibly with a cream sauce. He smiles as he picks up a scroll he wants to show to another smith, the other tweak he’s been working on. This one in theory is more promising but he needs a second crafter to help hold the lattice in shape while he moulds the weapon. He exits out into the main hall, its darker stone - closer in colour to granite, making the fairly large hallway seem snugger, so much so that the people using it hug the walls, keeping their eyes to themselves, and instinctively he reciprocates, pulling the scroll closer to his body as he races down its length with a steady clop-clop of his hooves.

A variety of different clans pass him, some light, some dark, all less hairy than him. He’s grown used to having that spare gene, the one that makes his face a mass of short fur, while others have a hairless face. His head hair is still balding, but beneath it is a fine fur that marks him as being unevolved, a throwback of the Therrent magic on his species.

He enters the hall and a few of the youngsters stand in respect, offering their seat to the smith. He shakes his head, a small smile as he watches their pouting expressions. They should know better, he never accepts, but it is good that the youngsters honour tradition. He looks across the expanse of hallway, trying to find his fellow smith.

Catching a large smith bully a small blond boy out of a seat next to a young woman who clings to his hand as she is held down by several other hulking smiths, he winces hunching his shoulders, trying to become as small as he can. He lowers his gaze, staring at his feet, heading straight to his usual spot as quickly as he can, his mission forgotten. Biting his large lower lip with flat and perfectly straight teeth, he wonders how he can be such a coward not to stand up to a fellow smith in defence of the youth. It doesn’t matter that the smith was massive, almost twice his size, he should have defended the couple.

He stumbles a little and his face goes white as he looks up in time to note that he’ll spray across three sitting people before ploughing into someone hidden behind a bucket load of dirty dishes. His eyes go wide and he twists his body, his hooves skidding on the smooth floor, unable to grip as he feels his muscles go on fire as he avoids the sitting casualties.

Unfortunately, nothing stops him from running into the bucket person, and he watches in horror as the bucket goes sideways, the sounds of smashing crockery stopping every other sound in the hallway and he looks into her eyes as he spirals into her and water washes over them both. He feels his work go soggy under his arm but all he can see is her horrified face, so beautiful beneath the glow of the dim electric lights, and the grins of all those in the hall, each slowly raising their upper lip before several hundred nickerings can be heard, high pitched and mingled with veiled insults.

He watches her, dripping, somehow sprawled across him, her simple blue dress hugging her breasts and stomach intimately and his face burns red as she looks at him forlornly, her hair covering her face and tears clearly visible on her cheeks. She gentle grabs her ponytail and slips it into her mouth to nibble it. She won’t look into his eyes, he watches as her eyes try to focus on anywhere but his.

“Oh look. The serving girl and the hairy beast,” a particularly harsh voice sounds out. “What a couple. The smith looks too far above himself in looks, who would want to mate with that? And the serving girl looks too far above herself in skills; she can barely fix a fan belt. Neithan and Marie. What a pair. What a mess.”

It doesn’t matter who the voice is, just that they’ve told the world what it already knew, hated and so never spoke of. They both look up then, staring at each other, questioning each other with their eyes on whether it is true. He tilts his head, and she tilts back, a small impish smile ghosting her lips before she grows timid and lowers her head. He nods, and then silently places his hand flatly on her chest, right above her heart. Her head darts up and her jaw slackens.

She leans forward, pressing him back, forgetting all the people as she runs her hot little hands over his chest before kissing him. He smiles; he guesses his private relationship is now oh so public.

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He's lean, and with the looted blade in his hand, he's deadly. No fear means the sword crackles in his hand. The blue orb at its base winks at him and he holds it before him like a baseball bat. His cloak lay behind him, its black folds too confining for the fight he has with yet another of the creatures from the arena. This thing is massive; its compound eyes extended on wiry black stalks the only weakness he can assess.

He leans lower into his pose, his tail flicking out behind him as he gets ready for the creature's attack. It is all bony plates and has spikes coming down the length of its eight legs, the pointed tips of which look as though they can skewer him with the least amount of effort.

Then in an instance it moves, scuttling away and then up, crawling along the ornate stone walling staying away from the wooden palisade as it races towards him. He pivots, keeping his front to it at all times as he hears the frightened gasps of the spectators, their litter raining down on the creature and then on him as they become bored with his stoic demeanour.

At last it reaches him, leaping down not two steps away from him, its front leg springing out to lash at the place he was as he rolls out of its path. His large eyes note that the creature's underbelly is also armour plated and he hisses in annoyance.

Taking two lopping steps forward, he stabs upward, feeling his arm jar heavily as the blade bounces off the plating. No, he can't stab this one from beneath. “Great fiery destruction.” He swears, stepping aside as another pincer slams the earth beside him. How is he meant to get up ontop it when he can comfortably walk beneath it.

He switches his stance, bringing himself lower to the ground, his tail out rigid behind him. Hissing, he rips away the loincloth around his stomach leaving him lean ready to kill.

He darts forward again, moving to the back of the beast as the twang of an arrow can be heard. Hearing the crumpling of the creature's protective plates blowing out he stops, wondering what's going on.  A wave of sticky purple sludge covers him and he looks up letting the blood of the creature gush out of the hole and over him, bathing him, staining his skin.

He looks across for the archer and sees her standing there, bow taut again and aimed at the creature. "I thought we did not send our men out to die." she hisses, the spines lining her back erect and throbbing. The solid black mask hides her face, but she is easily identifiable by the war paint lining her front, tattoos representing passion and intelligence surrounded by the painted markings of Cassiel, the sun of the south.

He is being defended by a priestess, one he has yet to meet, but who probably has some use for him. Men have been sacrificed to entertainment, laws or not. Inside the arena they are sport and all laws go out the window.

The call is made and he scuttles out from beneath it as a flurry of arrows bursts the creature like a wet balloon, spraying him with blood and bits. The solid wooden doors at the end of the field open and he walks slowly off the icy field, he sword dropped low as he accepts the shame of having someone else kill the creature for him.

She is there when he exits, dressed now in a membrane thin white robe which clings to her body in reckless abandon. Her large eyes peer out at him from beneath her mask with a desire filled gaze. "We can smell your man scent. It saturates everywhere you go. You are not unnoticed as your trainers would have you believe champion. Breeders are the only others that smell that..... edible."

The priestess slinks forward, tracing her hand along his bare shoulder rubbing her face along the scent glands in his neck with startling intimacy. He mouth finds the hole of his ear and she whispers, "How does it feel to be so close to a real man and yet never able to feel the joy of a death well done? Is that why you begged to be placed in the arena? Is that why the servants claim that you take yourself every night? Even the Nons have more inner peace than you."

He stays rigid still breathing her back in, wishing he had the freedom to be with her like any breeder other than the Non he is. He leans down, slowly and subtly breathing in her scent. It’s nutty with a trace of burnt herbs and soap.

And it’s driving him mad!

“You could act, for all good that would do. The guard wouldn’t stop you. I wouldn’t stop you. Your body on the other hand….” She chuckles deep in her throat, running her hand along his long thin tail, sending his senses wild before WHAM, his body sags – drained of all energy. It’s the drugs; they keep him on edge but suck him dry if he uses too much energy. He teeters for a moment before he’s caught by the guards that flank the priestess.

The world goes black as they lead him away.

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She lays low in the thick grass, her tawny brown scales, blending her in with the grass, her eyes staring at the creature in front of her. Coming slightly off of her front feet, she reaches to her first foreleg for her thrower, slipping it out of the sash around her torso, while plucking a short spear from her left side with her other hand.

She keeps her eyes on her prey as she fits the spear into the thrower, arching herself slowly backwards until she’s on two feet only, her tail bracing her, grasping tightly onto a small scrubby bush. Unleashing herself like a taunt spring, she flings the thrower forward and the spear with it. It flies through the air to slap at the hard rock next to the prey. She curses, dropping the thrower to begin her sprint forwards.

Sleeth dodges left around a large boulder, her forelegs and her two pairs of hindlegs pumping as her prey gets further and further away. She whistles in irritation, a high pitch sound that has her prey becomes more skittish, knowing that it will be mincemeat when she catches it. She grins through her bronze faceplate, her lipless mouth drawn wide as she tastes the fear along her broad tongue. It tastes delicious and she quickens her pace, knowing in her heart’s heart that her prey will tire before she does. They it’ll be hers!

The grass crackles at her flank, its dry surface slapping against her hard scales making a whoomph sound as she runs. It stings, but she has to catch this, has to get the food to feed her family, who are back in the cave with the rest of the clan. She leaps onto a fallen tree, its rough bark bending under her weight as she springs off to land in front of her prey. Her lips part and her long incisors become visible as the prey begins to skittle back on four little legs. Striding forward her tail grasps for the tail blade strapped to her hip.

“Here little tasty morsel. I’m not going to decapitate you and take you home for dinner. Just stop moving so I don’t lose my….” And then it darts forward again. Shoot. She starts off again. Today is going to be long she can see.

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She drags her prey up the rocky hillock, her mouth firmly around the neck of her intended meal. Her forelegs grip tightly onto the creature’s horns, grasping every now and then as they slip from her hold. Meanwhile her tail, now free of the blade, is used as an anchor, held tight on a lower stone to stop her falling to her death.

She avoids the centre path, pausing briefly to watch an elder carry a child up it, the young one gripped by the middle legs. They are obviously coming back from a training hunt. It looks to have been unsuccessful, if the colour of the youth’s hide and his drawn out face say anything.

Sleet chirps respectively at the elder as she passes the pair, repositioning her tail for another segment of climb, her middle legs, digging in as she leaves herself vulnerable on the side of the hillock that leads to their cave inside the mountain above. She drags her prey onto a flat ledge and looks down at the plains below, the myriad of browns and greens drowning her senses and she forces herself to zoom in on tree in the distance so that she doesn’t lose her head.

The mountain looms behind her, all greys and spiky rocks, small caves dotting the surface. On either side of it lay two identical mountains, its neighbors each having a dense layer of fog surrounding its upper levels. It has always been Sleet’s home, she was born there, she raised her son there, and she will die there.

Sleet starts to ascend again, making her way up the hill, her prey once again firmly in her clutch. The climb for the second leg of the trip is much steeper and she knows that even on the easy route she’d require her full attention. She wraps her tail around the first rock and proceeds to use her middle legs to find footholds. Her whole body is on fire as she starts again, punishing herself for that first missed shot. Hissing as the body swings into her legs, knocking the middle two out, she teeters, barely hanging on. Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to go up the most challenging route, deliberately missing any rest stop or easy patch on the climb.

Hissing in pain, she swings herself onto a long ledge, dropping her prey almost immediately. She notices a small cave and smiles, thinking that she’ll maybe catch a few minutes rest inside. Dragging her prey inside, she looks around the damp cave, its cold walls reminding her of….. “Nooo. Not here.” Her eyes dart to the entrance of the cave, her feet rooted to the spot as she eyes the small pile of stones in the back of the cave, covered by a pelt of some animal, the scales shining with moisture. Taking a step forward, she feels her lungs collapse as she lets out an involuntary hiss that echoes through the chamber.

Sleet closes her eyes, lowering her head to the damp pelt, its scales brushing against her bronze faceplate. She can feel the soul of her son seeping up through the rock grave and she remembers all the times she used to rest her head against his when he was young. And now….

She lifts her head running to the ledge outside the cave and stopping on the edge, her whole body strained. She had not lived a good life; she did not deserve death just yet. Grains of dust slip from between her feet, falling away to the plains below, bouncing on their way down. She inches her feet forward with an agonized gasp and she can hear in her mind the disapproval of her family and her clan. Even her son, only a youth on his first hunt, is in there scowling at her cowardice, her inability to live with the pain that is a part of all their lives.

She feels the wind press down on her scales and she tries to ignore the craft that she knows is heading up to the clan for trading. She inches forward, feeling the craft hover behind her for a moment, before it races past her, sleek and chrome two horizontal blades spinning above the comet of cloud that is the body. He watches it speed into the distance, taking it all in and yet ignoring everything but the pain coursing through her. One of her headaches hits, causing her to rear up and grab her head with her forelegs, her thumbs digging into her skull as a low moan hits her.

A moan that is not her own.

She tries to ignore it, and the pain, trying to remain stoic as she contemplates throwing herself onto the rocky mountain below. Lowering her claws slowly, she breathes deep, focusing on the light breeze that surrounds her and the slow trickle of blood that comes from her temples. Her forelegs hover midair as she inches forward again and she ignores another of the moans from whatever it is that was dropped behind her. Let it become someone else’s prey, she just wants it all to end, right here, so close to her son. It is her fault that he’s dead; it is her fault that his grave is wet and damp and his coat is getting soft. She should have watched over him instead she trusted his skills and now…..

“PLEASE” the intruder moans, low and guttural, snapping her out from her battle of wills.
“Be quiet! I’m trying to kill myself and I can’t do it with you moaning like that!” she screams turning from her ledge to confront the intruder.

The intruder is unlike anything she’s ever seen. Every muscle in the creature before her seems to be strained to its limit and broken bone can be seen to be thrust out from where its ribs should be. It is black, with deep golden eyes and something between a beak and fleshy gum taking up the rest of what approximates to a face. Bloody feathers dot the furry arms and large clawed paws clutch at the ground in sheer agony.

It lays at the mouth of the cave, a bloody trail marking its crawl it long tail limp behind it. A leather collar lay curled around its neck, the leather encased with diamonds a large hole situated right beneath the creature’s chin.

She can’t stop staring at the intruder, for it is unlike any of the races she has seen, and yet it is a grotesque deformity far worse than them all combined.
“Help me. Find Thegem. It should be around here somewhere.” The creature points at the hole in the collar then makes a large sweeping gesture, possibly hoping for some help. This is ironic as Sleet has the urge to find the Thegem and throw if off the cliff.

She focuses her eyes on the sandy stone around the creature and begins scanning, finding nothing but a few fragments of broken black rock. Picking up each of the pieces, she passes them to the creature with a shrug. The creature stares at the fragments before letting out a horrendous shriek.

“I… I’m stuck like this then. Stuck.” Its voice is hoarse, but feminine, and big rolling tears trail her face as she says this.

Her hands cling to the collar, a fleshy finger that looks bent and broken running along the tops of the diamonds. Sleet tries to turn away, but can see the pain in the creature. She can tell its magic, it’s just a magic not from around here. She can ‘see’ that with her magic. Hers is hunters’ magic, another reason for her to have headaches, but something that allows her to survive.

Her eyes glow red and she licks her lips, sensing the aura around the creature. It is a swirling mess of colours, with two bright orbs – one orange, one dark velvet, rotating around the creature faster and faster, always blurring at the centre. She stares at this mess until her headaches come again and she is forced to look away, sharp needles digging into her skull.

“Are you okay?” the creature hisses, the black voice, the black skin sinking into Sleet’s consciousness and calming her. The creature crawls forward, rubbing its paw-hand-things along Sleet’s flank in what should be a reassuring movement, except it scratches her, causing her to shudder at the feeling. Her claws dig in into the ground to distract from the pain and her eyes close, she just hopes she hasn’t hurt the feelings of the one reassuring.

At least the headaches are abating.

She breathes in. She breathes out. Opening her eyes she turns to look at “Dreeth. My name is Dreeth.” The black voice says as she stares into the golden eyes of the… Dreeth. The zombie-esque head bobs as if in a nod and a small smile flits across its agonized face.
“So are we heading back to your place then? Or are you going to try to throw yourself off the cliff again? Master says that one must always follow through with a course of action, even if it is the wrong one. Says it builds character, mistakes that is.” The black voice has no guile… no tricks in it; it just seems to be explaining the facts of life as it knows it. Sleet tilts her head, not understanding such a creature.
“I must take you back to the clan, they will know what to do with you and your avian flyer.” Truthfulness must be catching. A bit of a risk that might be.