Playing The Victims [BL]

Chapter One Hundred & Four | Fourth World

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Although Fahren could rely on his general knowledge in many circumstances, when it came to history, he knew very little. But from what he could recall from his school days, when he thought of the lives of the primitives, he anachronistically thought of large hairy men and women who grunted at each other instead of using actual words.

Evidently he was wrong, but what he could be certain about was that his surroundings were not an accurate depiction of historical events. Proven by the many beautifully bronze men, with toned abdomens and hairless chests. They walked with pride, spears as long as their bodies perched at their sides. Hairstyles seemingly determining rank as well as markings staining their skin.

If not for Fahren's current position, he would have continued to admire them further. He, along with the rest of his old clan, were situated inside of a makeshift cell. Various woods, fortified with material that looked like string, created a handy space to keep their prisoners.

Surrounded by the whimpers of women and children, and even some of the young men who were no longer able to hold their nerve, Fahren found it difficult to absorb the context of the world he was in. System, or their boss, seemingly wanted to make his life difficult by the torturously slow rate of which the memories returned.

As it turns out, the deceased parents were actually the previous leaders of the clan which had only just been destroyed. With all but Fahren remaining alive from that bloodline. But unlike his elder brother, who had fought hard in order to be respected by his father and the rest of the clan, it happened to be the complete opposite for the character Fahren inhabited.

The second son was once given a strong name, just like his brother before him. This was said to inspire those bestowed the name to achieve greatness. But as the second son's body remained lithe through puberty and refused to fill out in the same way as his brother's had, the clan's Chief changed his second son's name.

He became, Finch. Named after the small birds that were pretty to look at but hardly at the top of the food-chain. Which seemed to be demonstrated as the boy was repeatedly struck with illness after illness.

No one believed he would make it through adolescence; even his doting mother. But with one son rendered useless, the Chief made an effort to create more children. But in the end, it was the weakest that survived. Charles Darwin who?

But the seventeen year old hardly instilled confidence in the others who had barely escaped with their lives. They were too preoccupied whispering to themselves, repeatedly praying to the equivalent of a household-deity that was believed to be protecting the Clan.

Fahren, as Finch, could only watch as their expressions fell somewhat into despair. He possessed the recollection of endless occasions where the whole clan showcased respect towards a decorated alter with an intricately-carved statue on top of it. It was the very same alter that they carried atop their shoulders when the entire clan relocated throughout the seasons.

But it went up in flames alongside the rest of the Clan. And that's what made the melancholic-looking survivors all the more desperate in their silent prayers.

It was for a similar reason, that they were so fearful of where they had ended up. They recognised the warriors who had snatched them and their markings that resembled war-paint. The bold red that was dragged from ear to ear, over eyelids and the bridge of the nose. Telltale signs of a hostile clan.

When educating children of the clan Finch once belonged to, the elders would use this particular blood-thirsty clan as an example when outlining the dangers of their world. They were nicknamed the Savage Ones.