The twilight hybrid carefully twisted the spit upon which one of the legs had been placed, observing as the fire crackled with raucous sways of flickering flame, like a dancer twirling constantly around a foreign object. The lower half of the leg began to darken and pop as fat was disgorged from its resting places by the heat, leaking out over the sides of the meat and dripping slowly into the fire with a sizzle. He was not a spectacular cook by any means, as he had admitted to Nightshade, but the scent of cooking meat was one that delighted his sensations, and he mentally congratulated himself on managing to get that far at least in his preparations, though, it would be a rare trial when he could not accomplish at least that much.
His fellow hybrid admitted that she herself was not much of a cook, which admittedly made him more confident in his preparations. After all, if she was not a cook herself, then she would have far lower standards than someone who often broiled and baked world class dishes befitting nobility. He casually removed one of the spits from the fire, looking at the half-cooked meat carefully before arising from his seated position, and bringing it to Nightshade. He nodded towards her wolfish pet as he spoke,
“For your pet. Don’t eat it. It’s not entirely cooked, though I doubt it cares much.” He gave another nod to punctuate his sentence and promptly returned to his seating arrangement across the fire, beginning to tend the remaining spits with renewed attention.
He recognized quite handily that he could have attempted to feed the creature himself, but he was not quite certain as to its level of training, and rather despised the idea of having it take a chunk out of him instead of out of the offered leg. Admittedly, despite that minor caution, he was not at all afraid of the creature, and allowed his crimson gaze to settle upon it for several moments, staring deeply into its eyes with confident energy. He recognized within himself that he could kill the beast should it suddenly try to engage him in combat. Woe befell those who spurned the Prince, and it was wrought with bloody vengeance and terrible fury.
A tickle at the edge of consciousness made him aware of Nightshade’s own glare, and he spared a trill to glance in her direction over the dancing flames, observing the way her face had carved itself into something of apathy or perhaps even disgust, the way her eyes looked upon him with such maliciousness. He did not wish to bear the burden of that look, and so he averted his eyes back towards the flame under the pretense of continuing his cooking work, attempting to wipe away the mental image of that hateful stare from his memory as quickly as possible.
She began to speak of how the Etzori had treated her, and the hybrid listened, captivated by her words as he continued twisting and turning spits. She spoke of how her work was going well, though it seemed that she had some manner of issue with her co-workers. He immediately thought to how he would solve that particular issue, but figured that bringing up his potential solutions to such things would only alienate Nightshade. She didn’t think like he did after all, and there was no need to ruin their luncheon by bringing their moral differences to the forefront. She described her experiences as a scout, and promptly clarified that she worked as a mapmaker. He didn’t think that he had known that before, and thus graced the knowledge with a nod and a pleasant smile as he pulled one of the finished spits from the flame, jamming the stick into the ground so that the meat hung in midair, ready for feasting.
The hybrid caught on rather quickly to the end goal of her monologue as Nightshade began to discuss how the people of Etzos rarely looked upon her with a hateful eye, and how they treated her oh so well, and how they looked up to her now in place of the Blackguard. He grimaced slightly as she brought that to a close, waiting for the insult to drop, and twitching angrily ever-so-slightly when it fell. He stilled himself, jamming the stick he had used for prodding the flames deeper into the flame, and leaving it there to smolder and burn.
“Isn’t that just frustrating?” He questioned, running his hand along his neck and popping it as he began to speak. “Having to become a hero just to get some semblance of respect out of those people. Because, I know for certain that they didn’t used to treat you that way. I remember distinctly a time when we discussed how people were so cruel in their social ways, because all they saw was a pair of wings.” He smirked, arising from his seated position.
“The way they whisper behind your back when you walk by, because they think you can’t hear. The terms they make up for us, and call us on the streets. The way that they’ll raise prices on us in the shops, or deny us entry to public services on the basis of having feathers.” He chuckled mirthlessly, spitting upon the ground to his side. “And it’s awful, and it hurts, because for the life of you, they won’t tell you what it is that you’ve done other than being born. It’s almost as if every single instance of how society will interact with you has been chosen at your conception, like they don’t care how many bandits you stop, or how many monsters you slay, or how many orphans are rescued from burning buildings, because at the end of the trial, all they see is ‘what’ you are, not ‘who’ you are.”
“So, you’re right. Some of us do you have issues making friends with them, gaining the respect of people we don’t respect ourselves.” He hissed, reaching into the flames and yanking loose another of the spits of meat, and promptly slamming it into the ground to join its brethren. The flames lapped at his skin for a moment, and he smothered any lingering remnants of fire that latched onto his feathers with his oft-hand, allowing the momentary pain to fuel him as he continued pacing.
“Yes. I’m a little rough around the edges, I’m hateful and mean, and people hate me for it, but have you ever considered that maybe I’m hateful and mean, because people hate me? Have you ever considered that maybe I’m the way I am, because I’ve never known anything different? Because beyond a handful of cases, I treat others how I’ve been treated?”
“Go on and scream at me. Yell at me for being treacherous and awful, hate me for what I’ve become, come sink that pretty little sword into my neck and finish me off… but Nightshade, at the end of the trial, at least I’ll still look at you for ‘who’ you are instead of ‘what’ you are. I’ll still see more out of you than some Avriel with a sword and an impossible mission. I’ll still know that you’re a kind and compassionate person, and a hero, and I’ll know that having wings and feathers will never change that.”
He slid to the ground limply, gazing into the fire for an instant before shutting his eyes and allowing a shuddering breath to heave from his lungs.
