A Lesson in Aristocracy

VIII - Xym

I hate it here.

Xym looked up at the sound of footsteps, watching as yet another guard made yet another round and yet again paid no attention to him.

"Hyarith," he mumbled.

"What a stupid name."

Xym stretched his wings, standing up and raking his claws along the bars. He was grateful, somehow - grateful that he wasn't stuck in that room, chained to the walls and floor and anything that would keep him in place. He supposed he should've been grateful to that Sielfi man - that bastard who showed up and wasn't quivering and shaking after the first scare. But he wasn't. He was grateful to himself, grateful for his ability to finally scare someone enough for them to give him what he wanted, rather than... run.

"Quiet," one of the guards announced, Xym lifting his head. He stopped raking his claws agains the iron, pondering if he should listen.

If I'm too obnoxious, they'll stuff me back down there, he mused, wings falling almost defeatedly.

Contrary to popular belief, Lozenfi did not like the smell of corpses. Fresh blood and meat, maybe. But decaying flesh and rotted blood, not so much. Xym in particular hated the smell.

He walked over to his hay pile, staring at it for perhaps too long before sitting in it. Light was still filtering in from the small windows cut into the stone walls. He wished it was dark already - the torches they lit warmed the air, kept the chill from falling to his skin in his absence of a shirt.

That had to be one of the most inconvenient things he'd experienced since he and Nil were pulled away from their parents. Their clothes had been burned, and all they'd been allotted was a pair of loose trousers that needed to be held up with rope - at this point, both things were frayed.

Xym cocooned himself in his wings once more, trying to conserve what heat he could. He wasn't cold, per say - but he certainly wasn't comfortable. He could feel the goosebumps beneath his skin, itching to rise; and it was still summer. Once winter arrived, Xym knew he'd be miserable.

"Hyarith?"

Xym's nose crinkled up at the name, his wings falling away from his face. He inspected the Handler on the other side of the bars. It wasn't his handler - maybe he should be grateful. This Seralfi was much less abrasive. But still, he hated everyone around there.

"Hm." Hyarith grunted, waiting for the Seralfi to continue.

"I..." the Handler paused, his tail curling inwards slightly. "I'm Handler Kre'lest. Your handler's busy, right now."

"I thought this was his job."

The Seralfi gulped, looking over his shoulder when one of the guards passed.

"Just - I'm just checking up on you for him. Do you need anything? Food? Bandages?"

"Out of this cage."

"You know I can't do that."

"Then screw off."

Unfortunately for Xym, he did not screw off.

Handler Kre'lest gripped the keys that had been left to him, letting himself into Xym's cell. The Lozenfi raised his wings almost defensively, growling low in his throat.

"Stop. I'm trying to help you," Kre'lest whispered, Xym's teeth now showing.

"You can help by leaving," He spat.

"I'm one of Astaeli's friends."

Xym froze at the mention, the anger in his gaze melting into one of confusion.