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+---- Thread: this is an illusion, open up your eyes and -- initiation (/showthread.php?tid=204)
this is an illusion, open up your eyes and -- initiation - Verdigris - 03-19-2018
/tw: hallucinations, occasional mentions of blood and gore throughout
/tl;dr at the end
The jungle was silent tonight, the only noise being the chirping of various insects echoing in his left ear.
This entire "initiation" process seemed to be a sham. There was value in designing a ritual intended to weed out the weaklings, so that they couldn't waste the resources of the group as a whole- he would not deny that- but how, the jackal reflected as he stood in the middle of the clearing, was spending a single night out in the territory enough to separate the useful from the useless? There was no threat to be found out here at all.
Worse yet, was what they'd had the gall to ask him to do beforehand.
"Wait. Before you go, you have to drink this."
Papercutter stared down at the cup, filled to the brim with a viscous orange liquid. "What for?" he asked, lifting his head and narrowing his eyes at the younger feline who had offered it to him. "I'm not thirsty."
The cat met the jackal's heterochromatic gaze with wide blue eyes of his own. "It's... to keep your strength up," he murmured hesitantly. At Paper's indignant look, he added, "Please. You literally cannot complete the ritual without it. It's impossible."
The jackal glared for a moment, then sighed and lowered his head, drinking the entirety of the cup's contents within a few moments. He was strong enough without any need for steroids or whatever they'd put in the drink, but he suspected that they wouldn't let him leave without taking it.
Apparently, Papercutter thought to himself with the taste of the drink still sour on his tongue, sitting in the middle of the rainforest for a night was considered impossible under normal circumstances. Perhaps they were deliberately attempting to deceive him, waiting for him to stumble back in the next morning with dark bags under his eyes, so they could mock him for being enough of an idiot not to question what he was doing.
With a sigh, he began pacing in circles, his left ear swiveling outwards. Maybe he could content himself with catching some prey, at least. It beat sitting idle, waiting for the moon to sink below the horizon and the sun to take its place.
”How very bold of you, expecting to see the sunrise.”
Paper nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping his head around to face the source of the voice- except there was none. The foliage remained unchanged, nary a creature to be seen. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly turned in place, scrutinizing his surroundings to search for any sign of a potential skirmish. There was still nothing.
Where had the voice come from?
An ear-splitting shriek tore through the air, drawing Paper’s eyes towards the source- horror dawning in them as realization struck. Turning to his left, he bolted through the trees, internally preparing himself for a fight. In the back of his mind, he knew what he was about to stumble upon, but the rest of his mental faculties hadn’t quite put two and two together yet.
He burst out from under the foliage with a snarl, only to freeze in shock.
The dirt beneath his paws was coated with blood, the crimson trails meandering through grooves in the soil until they reached the two motionless lumps of fur on the ground. The slow, uneven movement of the dark liquid clashed with the jagged gashes in each one's neck, and the fast, deliberate strokes of the stripes on their sides (as if to put any doubt in his mind to a swift, gruesome end).
He couldn't move. Not a furious shriek, not an astonished inquiry, not even a pitiful cry for help could escape from his throat. This... this couldn't be real, he had determined, he had insisted to himself since several weeks prior. His squadmates were all alive, none of them despised him, none of them wished that he had been the one to die instead.
So then what was this?
As if to answer, a resounding thud echoed behind him. Paper had to will himself to turn around, eyes narrowed into slits, teeth bared. The figure behind him was no less abstract than it had initially been that night. The faded, unclear edges of its frame, the lack of discernible color, the odd, static-like texture, all of it was exactly as he remembered, exactly as he had struggled so hard to forget.
”Imagine that,” it murmured, with a dark chuckle that made the jackal's skin crawl. "A weakness so entangling, so thorough, that you don't even realize it's within you."
Papercutter couldn't answer for a moment, paralyzed by... no. It wasn't fear. He wasn't afraid, only weaklings felt fear. The only ones who were actually scared were the ones who were slaughtered soon after- that was the way nature worked- and that wasn't him.
"I..." the jackal growled, drawing himself up to his full height and staring directly at the figure, allowing fury to pour into his mismatched eyes, "am not weak!" Teeth bared, he lunged at the shadow, snapping his jaws around where its throat should have been. The darkness dissipated, slipping out through his fangs and fading into the canopy.
"Yes, that's very cute. You destroyed an illusion," he heard from behind him, though the voice had morphed from the figure's dark, ethereal tone into a lighter, raspier one. Hesitantly, he turned, ears flattening back.
Both of the other jackals had stood back up, though the blood still flowed freely from their necks, the glaze of death still coating their golden eyes. They were joined by another female, gold chains hanging loosely from her own neck, her eyes burrowing holes in Papercutter's facade. The female strode forwards, until she stood barely a foot away from him, her frame towering over his.
He remembered. He remembered her claws swinging through the air, tearing a gash in his face, just as the shadow had torn gashes in his packmates' neck. He remembered lying in the sand afterwards, forcing himself not to cry out for help, because that was what weaklings did, and he was not weak.
Weaklings also wouldn't allow themselves to be struck.
As she rose her paw to strike him again in real time, he sidestepped to the left. Punishment was only for the weaklings anyways. The strong could do whatever they wanted, as evidenced by the fact that the shadow had not received retribution for what it had done. He was strong. He was above the law, or what little passed for law in this Anubis-forsaken mess of a world.
Then she swung again, and hooked her claws into his right ear. He struggled to pull away, snapping his jaws at her outstretched leg. This... he did not remember this. "This was useless to you anyway, right?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. As his eyes widened, she smirked. "Yes, I knew, and so did everyone else. No amount of your precious mummy's secrecy could hide your inherent shortcomings."
With a firm jerk, she tore off the useless flap of cartilage, with little regard to the blood vessels that were opened in the process, or the screech that erupted from Paper's throat as he collapsed to the crimson-stained ground, clutching at the wound with both front paws. "So easy to sever, just like you," he heard her murmur above him. His limbs were frozen, the haze of pain from his missing ear scrambling what little thoughts he could still think.
He had to fight back. The strong always fought back. Yet he physically couldn't, his frame paralyzed with the guilt of what he had allowed to happen, the shame brought by the blood pouring from where his right ear had once been, the fear that he was about to die.
He was weak. Everyone who had relied on him to protect them, to lead them, had paid the price for it. Now, after a few weeks of denial and desperation, it was his turn to meet a bloody end.
"Yes, you were weak then," he faintly remembered his mother whispering, pressing a cold bandage against his still-bleeding eye. "And the price for that will weigh on you for the rest of your life." She had been right; as hard as he had tried to wipe the events of that night from his mind, to repress everything he had gone through, the nightmares kept coming back.
"But you don't have to stay a weakling. You can become strong."
Could he?
No, it wasn't a matter of whether he could or not. He had to.
If nothing else, he at least had to survive the night. He'd be condemned if he let himself become food for the cloudy-eyed Daphne's pet snake, and for now, that was motivation enough.
With a howl, Papercutter jumped to his feet and swung a paw at the other jackal's forelegs, knocking them out from under her. The bleeding canines lunged at him, but he rolled to the side, then bolted into the trees. He was not yet strong enough to face two people at once and win, and for now, that was fine. His orders were to survive the night, and whatever it took, that was what he was going to do. He could concern himself with how they had resurrected the two dead members of his former squad and retrieved the third from the desert later.
Retreating into the relative safety of a battle trance, Paper quickly scanned his surroundings. The trees seemed to be getting thicker. Going further into unfamiliar territory with two canines on his tail, especially with blood still dripping from the side of his head, was a terrible idea, but he had no other options right now.
Bursting into another clearing, the jackal blinked. Ahead of him was a stone structure, coated head-to-toe with vegetation, with a small stairway leading up to an entrance. Narrowing his eyes, he raced up the steps, then turned and looked back over the jungle from his vantage point. The sky was completely black, with the moon and stars nowhere to be seen.
"What in Anubis' name?" he mouthed to himself, brows furrowing. He was almost certain that there had been a half moon earlier, before the shadow figure had appeared. Now he had no way of determining how much longer he had to last.
Before he could think through his plan any further, his pursuers emerged from the foliage, saliva and blood dripping from their jaws. It seemed he was going to have to rely on instinct. He spiraled and rushed into the entrance, eyes rapidly sweeping the area for a stairway or some other means of gaining ground. Spotting a pile of rocks leading up to a ledge, he approached it and hauled himself up onto the first rock, then the next, then the next. He was reasonably certain that the other jackals were even worse climbers than he was, given that they had lived in the desert for most of their lives, and that he was the only one with experience in other biomes.
Then again, what did he know about the undead?
Reaching the top ledge and pulling himself onto it, he saw his pursuers slowly but surely making their way up the rocks. Gritting his teeth, he glanced around at his surroundings- the ledge was relatively small, and the distance to the next area of floor was too large to safely jump across. If he wanted to have any hope of living another day, then he would have to take drastic measures.
With a grunt, he gave the top rock a shove, sending it rolling down the pile and directly into the other canines. Each one let out a hellish cry, the differing tones of each creating a dissonance that nearly shattered his working eardrum, only to be cut off by a loud crunch. When the rock rolled away, they were gone, with no evidence that they had ever been there. The rest of the stones in the pile came tumbling down as well, scattering the bottom floor with detritus.
Now he had no way to get down, short of jumping down and hoping he didn't break too many bones, but at least he was safe for the moment.
With a sigh, the jackal sat in the corner of the ledge, lifting a paw to the wound on the side of his head. The pain was likely to kick in again by the time morning finally came, but his living squadmate had been right; it wasn't like he had lost anything of use. The others would likely mock him for his new appearance, but there were worse flaws to be mocked about.
Seeing a dim light shining through the entrance, Papercutter blinked twice to ensure he wasn't imagining it, then let out a soft laugh in relief. He had actually made it. He was going to live another day. "How's that for a 'weakling?'" he muttered, stumbling towards the door.
Well, he reflected as he walked off the ledge and plummeted towards the rocks below, he had almost made it. He wasn't sure whether or not that was worse than never having a chance to begin with.
He managed to land feet-first, though that was little comfort, as his legs gave way under the sudden strain, slamming his face into the stony surface. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit back a yelp. Whoever the medic was was going to have words with him, and everyone was going to laugh, but all of that took a backseat to the pain spreading through most of his weary frame. He stood back up and limped to the entrance, gritting his teeth, struggling to push the discomfort to the back of his mind. Stepping out into the fresh air, the jackal collapsed onto the stone, taking a moment to catch his breath. He reached a paw tentatively towards the right side of his head, wincing at the strain in his foreleg.
His paw felt the soft fur and skin of his right ear, right where it had originally been before the night began.
"Wha..." he murmured softly, pressing down on the cartilage. Sure enough, the ear was still there, with the only sign that anything was out of the ordinary being a few drops of blood pooling in the inner ear. Glancing down at his forelegs and flank, he could see small scratches and bruises, but no other signs of wounds.
Groaning, Paper got to his feet and examined his surroundings. The stone structure was still there, and the sky was painted with orange and pink as it was normally supposed to be at this time of day, but there was no sign of pawprints on the dusty stone other than his own.
Had he imagined the whole thing?
Shaking his head, Papercutter started walking towards the beach. He suspected he was going to have nightmares about the events of this night too, regardless of whether or not any of it was real, but none of the other members had to know. For now, he needed to find a calm place to rest, and fix himself up (or get fixed up, if the medic insisted).
Before he knew it, he was emerging onto the beach again, the ships towering above him. The smell of saltwater was still foreign to him, but welcome after the disquieting events of the night before. No one seemed to be nearby, but he was sure that one would be by sooner or later.
What was he supposed to do now... oh, right, the bottle. They had mentioned something about writing a message, something to get over and move on from. The materials would probably be on one of the ships, then. Glancing at the ship on the right, he trudged over and entered the interior.
Picking the room at the far end, he pushed through the door and went up to the desk. Sure enough, there was some paper on the desk, along with ink and a quill, and a bottle to put the message in. Climbing up onto the desk (with some difficulty), he took the quill and began scrawling out a message. (Despite paper being a part of his name, he was not a particularly eloquent writer. Still, no one had to know that.)
I used to be weak.
You'd probably never be able to tell unless you got to see inside my head, or unless you were part of the pack back in the desert. I look tough. I act tough. Heck, I think I'm tough most of the time. But I wasn't always. I was born weak and insecure. And some of that weakness, I've still gotta shake off.
I came here hoping to get stronger. I knew that no one in my pack would ever give me a chance again, not after what happened... that night. I was afraid of most of them. It was kind of for good reason; they thought I should've died that night, instead of Strike, or Dice. People loved those two. I loved those two, even if they never took me seriously.
I couldn't save them, or avenge them. And Mom was right. I'm going to have to deal with that for the rest of my life. But I'm never going to let it happen again. That's my promise.
I will become stronger. No one will be able to cross me or my allies ever again.
Coming to terms with his situation wasn't going to be that simple. He couldn't just throw away his troubles and move on; he'd already tried that, and on the very first night, the Typhoon had poked more holes than a meerkat burrow in that idea. This was just one step in a larger process, one that would span his entire lifetime, and that was okay.
Slipping the message into the bottle and grabbing the bottle by its neck, Papercutter carefully lowered himself onto the floor and limped out of the room, then went outside. Standing in the wet sand, he stared out over the horizon. The skies seemed endless, and the land beneath it only slightly less so.
As a wave rushed in, the jackal flung the bottle out into the distance. The receding remnants of the wave caught the glass cylinder and dragged it away, where, he suspected, it would never be seen again.
Standing there, with ink stains slowly washing off of his paws, a sprain in his back leg, blood draining from his right ear canal, and cuts and bruises lining his form, Papercutter knew that whoever came up first would almost certainly think he was a mess. To a larger degree than anyone but himself probably realized, that was entirely true. He was ready to do whatever he needed to to change that, but for now, that was true.
In this moment, the seawater softly tugging at his fur and the sun just barely over the horizon, he didn't know for sure what he was going to do, and he was okay with that.
/if y'all want to respond to this feel free, if not, that's okay too
/tl;dr: Papercutter went into the forest, after drinking something at an NPC's insistence. The drink made him hallucinate a shadowy figure, along with three of his former squad members- he hallucinated one tearing off his ear, and the other two (who were supposed to be dead) chasing him into the jungle temple, where he managed to ward them off. When morning came, he left the jungle temple (causing himself some injuries in the process), wrote a message about his fears and insecurities regarding being "weak" in the past, and threw the message into the sea. Now he's just kind of standing there outside the ships
/injuries are miscellaneous scratches and bruises (particularly on the face), a ruptured right eardrum, and a sprain in one back leg