2018-12-12 18:01![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redthedragon
redthedragonTazryx ket'Aothea being miserable and suffering a la Canon(tm) and accidentally drawing all the right parallels, as written for my own amusement while my beloved partner is off beating the shit out of their last final essay for whatever class they're in rn.
Warnings for: suicidal ideation, imprisonment, reference to other shitty stuff(starvation, burning alive, and harm to children). Note: no actual harm occurs on screen. It's just Taz thinking, and being miserable.
Word count: 854 words
Another note: all the words in not-english were invented by me. Tazra tal olaroix means 'freedom to death.' There are other variations of this; Tazra eni olaro means 'freedom or death,' and tazra eni tazra means 'freedom or freedom.' This isn't too hard to follow in story (i hope) but ghsjsjhs have I got a fucking ton of work invested in this story? YOU FUCKING BET!
Taz curled up into a very small ball and still didn’t manage to stop being pressed against the rough wood of the cell. Tally marks clawed in with fingers in the dark scraped against his cheek from the worn wood of the floor. This place reminded Taz of his brother; how fucked up was that?
A tiny place and tally marks, though… that was Rex’s sort of deal.
Taz had been here for less than ten days, and he already had some idea of what to expect. They had him making guns, see, and they were able to talk quietly while they worked, and… well. The first night he’d been here had been the seventh day of the week. They got to endure… that… and then it was back to the grind until they wore away to nothing but ash in the wind. Rinse and repeat. Nothing ever changed here, apparently.
Taz was really looking forward to that.
Ha.
No he wasn’t.
He wanted to die.
Nine days, and he already wanted to die. How pathetic.
If the Ath were here, she’d tell him to keep his head down and focus on a way out. If Nadiya were here, she’d talk about justice and how this wasn’t it. If Rex were here… Rex would tell him to go get his blades and leave, or take something he was working on and try to make some sort of fantastical last stand.
But it was just him.
And he just wanted to die.
He had friends, of course. Adariel who told him about Kyrsax, dead two winters long, who had remembered for him a line of ten people leading back to a kid by name of Kierel, eight years younger than Rex and dead longer, who made of himself a sabateur. They remembered for Taz stories about Kaze Kaizyem the Crow, who grinned to his last breath, and whose bones were black as his scales after the fire; they told him about Alryn ket’darek, last daughter of a dead clan, who killed forty of the guards before they shot her; they remembered Naliam Tazryx, Free Fang, who told stories to keep everyone up after nights, until they and their six closest friends managed to make a break for it. There was Jazien, from Sastes, lost on the road and caught unawares, who told him about what it was like near where Adder was out in Madescua; Taz had always wanted to see its sweeping skyscrapers of glass and metal, but it looked like he’d have to settle for secondhand stories, because there was no fucking way he was getting out of this alive. There was System, who had a broken arm that had never healed right; he helped her with the wire sometimes. There was Vina, who insisted he was going to get out free somehow.
But they all talked about death as if it was freedom. And they all talked about death like it was the only thing they had to look forward to.
Not for nothing, though, Taz could understand that.
He had his family. He had Nadiya. He wanted to hold onto that.
But what was there to look forward to?
Another night of torture? Another day of twenty-two hours in the blistering cold, making tools for their enemies to stave off worse pains than the ones they had? Another week of starving on the tainted gruel they fed? Another--
Another week was enough to make Taz want to collapse. Another week of this. And then another. And another.
And then he would die.
May it come soon.
Tazra eni olaro. Freedom or death. Here freedom was death, and death was freedom.
Funny, that. He’d never thought he could find a bad shortening of his name. Here he didn’t even need to look. His name had suddenly morphed from meaning freedom, justice, something to look forwards to... to a pyre full of bones beneath a gallows made of stone.
Although he figured a lot of the people here wanted that.
Olaro eni olaro.
Rex liked to say the opposite-- tazra eni tazra, freedom or freedom, because ‘he didn’t think that death was an option he should be giving an enemy’ quote quote--but it still struck Taz as funny. Something familiar in this twisted dark version of the world he lived. Lots of things like Rex.
Lots of things not, too, though.
Way more not.
And that was what really counted.
The lights flicked on, brilliant yellow flooding the backs of Taz’s eyelids and then fading to red as his eyes adjusted, and he slowly forced himself to open his eyes and get up before someone came to kick him awake. He didn’t need to add to the patchwork of bruises on his eighths-damned ribs. Eights wasn’t the right number. Rex would know which one. For now, Taz cursed Eights. It was close enough. Whatever. He didn’t need his ribs any more hurt than they were. He forced himself up, to stand, to function.
The door slammed open. Taz got in line.
The line moved. Taz followed.
This was his life now.
Tazra tal olaroix.
as always! please leave a comment if you read and or enjoyed and or have any passing interest in my extensive radasyx notes, or alphabet, or whatever.... or the meanings of the names, which... are all words.... because i have extensive north american dragon customs planned out...... please give me someone to throw those ideas at............or not like up to you but my point is ASK AND I WILL TELL YOU SO MUCH MORE THAN YOU WANTED TO KNOW, I WILL TELL YOU SO MANy THINGS, I WILL EXPLAIN WHY WONT THEY SHUT UP ABOUT NUMBERS, I HAVE SO MUCH LORE, DONT BE SHY, JUST ASK, ,,, IF YOU HAVE, A SINGLE QUESTION OR MORE THAN A SINGLE OR MANY OR WHATEVER P LEASE
Warnings for: suicidal ideation, imprisonment, reference to other shitty stuff(starvation, burning alive, and harm to children). Note: no actual harm occurs on screen. It's just Taz thinking, and being miserable.
Word count: 854 words
Another note: all the words in not-english were invented by me. Tazra tal olaroix means 'freedom to death.' There are other variations of this; Tazra eni olaro means 'freedom or death,' and tazra eni tazra means 'freedom or freedom.' This isn't too hard to follow in story (i hope) but ghsjsjhs have I got a fucking ton of work invested in this story? YOU FUCKING BET!
Taz curled up into a very small ball and still didn’t manage to stop being pressed against the rough wood of the cell. Tally marks clawed in with fingers in the dark scraped against his cheek from the worn wood of the floor. This place reminded Taz of his brother; how fucked up was that?
A tiny place and tally marks, though… that was Rex’s sort of deal.
Taz had been here for less than ten days, and he already had some idea of what to expect. They had him making guns, see, and they were able to talk quietly while they worked, and… well. The first night he’d been here had been the seventh day of the week. They got to endure… that… and then it was back to the grind until they wore away to nothing but ash in the wind. Rinse and repeat. Nothing ever changed here, apparently.
Taz was really looking forward to that.
Ha.
No he wasn’t.
He wanted to die.
Nine days, and he already wanted to die. How pathetic.
If the Ath were here, she’d tell him to keep his head down and focus on a way out. If Nadiya were here, she’d talk about justice and how this wasn’t it. If Rex were here… Rex would tell him to go get his blades and leave, or take something he was working on and try to make some sort of fantastical last stand.
But it was just him.
And he just wanted to die.
He had friends, of course. Adariel who told him about Kyrsax, dead two winters long, who had remembered for him a line of ten people leading back to a kid by name of Kierel, eight years younger than Rex and dead longer, who made of himself a sabateur. They remembered for Taz stories about Kaze Kaizyem the Crow, who grinned to his last breath, and whose bones were black as his scales after the fire; they told him about Alryn ket’darek, last daughter of a dead clan, who killed forty of the guards before they shot her; they remembered Naliam Tazryx, Free Fang, who told stories to keep everyone up after nights, until they and their six closest friends managed to make a break for it. There was Jazien, from Sastes, lost on the road and caught unawares, who told him about what it was like near where Adder was out in Madescua; Taz had always wanted to see its sweeping skyscrapers of glass and metal, but it looked like he’d have to settle for secondhand stories, because there was no fucking way he was getting out of this alive. There was System, who had a broken arm that had never healed right; he helped her with the wire sometimes. There was Vina, who insisted he was going to get out free somehow.
But they all talked about death as if it was freedom. And they all talked about death like it was the only thing they had to look forward to.
Not for nothing, though, Taz could understand that.
He had his family. He had Nadiya. He wanted to hold onto that.
But what was there to look forward to?
Another night of torture? Another day of twenty-two hours in the blistering cold, making tools for their enemies to stave off worse pains than the ones they had? Another week of starving on the tainted gruel they fed? Another--
Another week was enough to make Taz want to collapse. Another week of this. And then another. And another.
And then he would die.
May it come soon.
Tazra eni olaro. Freedom or death. Here freedom was death, and death was freedom.
Funny, that. He’d never thought he could find a bad shortening of his name. Here he didn’t even need to look. His name had suddenly morphed from meaning freedom, justice, something to look forwards to... to a pyre full of bones beneath a gallows made of stone.
Although he figured a lot of the people here wanted that.
Olaro eni olaro.
Rex liked to say the opposite-- tazra eni tazra, freedom or freedom, because ‘he didn’t think that death was an option he should be giving an enemy’ quote quote--but it still struck Taz as funny. Something familiar in this twisted dark version of the world he lived. Lots of things like Rex.
Lots of things not, too, though.
Way more not.
And that was what really counted.
The lights flicked on, brilliant yellow flooding the backs of Taz’s eyelids and then fading to red as his eyes adjusted, and he slowly forced himself to open his eyes and get up before someone came to kick him awake. He didn’t need to add to the patchwork of bruises on his eighths-damned ribs. Eights wasn’t the right number. Rex would know which one. For now, Taz cursed Eights. It was close enough. Whatever. He didn’t need his ribs any more hurt than they were. He forced himself up, to stand, to function.
The door slammed open. Taz got in line.
The line moved. Taz followed.
This was his life now.
Tazra tal olaroix.
as always! please leave a comment if you read and or enjoyed and or have any passing interest in my extensive radasyx notes, or alphabet, or whatever.... or the meanings of the names, which... are all words.... because i have extensive north american dragon customs planned out...... please give me someone to throw those ideas at............
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