╰ FIRST STEPS『 INGÓLFR』

Placing a claw down, Ingólfr braces his scaled and injured body and tries to take a step out of his chosen nest that is patterned down in a small oval to fit just his body. In resort his body shakes, not getting up. His black talons get tangled into the longer than normal golden vanilla grass. Mixed with the grasses are crumbled feathers that are more than likely stolen from many different phims and cloud white leaves from the trees that surround and protect his nest from the large not-so-real sun. Scattered farther in this mess of a soft pile are sky blue and nebula purple feathers and matching scales that are dimmed with age. They lay underneath where his body rests.

Off to the left is his broken down but sturdy training dummy he snagged from the training center when he was more than just a hatchling. All across its body it was laden with claw marks, bites and a slash here and there from what could be any sharp weapon. To the right are his clothes and equipment. The shawl hangs low on the silver branches while his gear lay on the ground, softly tucked between the vanilla grasses, silver leaves, and stolen feathers.

Ingólfr lays defeated in between the tall dark silver trees that pleat with their white cloud leaves over his head to cover the sun, shivering in exhaustion. Above his head his shattered runic halo seems to droop down, matching his mood. His cracked scaled chest moves with quicken breaths. Gold Void eyes flutter with every breath but no oxygen goes through, making his body and fins quake tremendously.

He tries to stand straightening out his balance with the help of his wings but only collapses back to the ground. The halo following his movements a smudge behind. Quiet yet powerful sobs leave his snout. His back tinges fiercely with pain. With every breath brings the torn skin and membrane to flex and him to wince in pain in a never-ending cycle of pain. He feels a liquid start to run through the many rips that layer throughout his back and his wings to his body before hitting the ground in rivers and drops. A weak growl matches the cries as it starts up in his chest from discomfort and heartbreak. The noise stutters to match his sharp, inconsistent breathing as he panickily thinks back on what happened yesterday.

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It started like any other day. Being the prodigal son of Daywind’s Golden Trident and the Raveflame Swordmaster, Ingólfr is met with all sorts of challenges and obligations that he should not have to, ever since he was a hatchling. Before he gained his halo. Before he shattered it.

With every sense of morning his- always armored to the tooth-mother would come outside to grab at his nape past his vapor made mane with her scaled claw and unwillingly drag him into their territory. They refused to share with him the comfort and luxury of having a safe place to call his home. His flight. His.

A large portion of the golden vanilla grass field is closed off from others. A few dark silver trunk trees and cloud white leaves surround the many openings of the crescent shaped area. Between the trees and hanging off the tall but slightly broken marble white columns are soft cloths of silver and deep gold in the shape of a trident crossed with a sword. An orange sun is behind the two weapons. This is the crest of the Sveinn house. It marks not only warning to outsiders, but also a welcome to any and all supporters to The Weaver, their creator and most powerful god.

Inside the crescent, are many different ‘rooms’ so to speak. In the very center and taking up most of the land is a court of soft brown dirt packed with smooth white sand. When a column breaks down, his father grinds it up and layers their court with the shavings, making the sand stack.

Right behind the court is a nest of sky blue and nebula purple feathers mixed with the golden vanilla grasses patterned down in a large oval. Next to it off to the far left are multiple close-cut dummies that hold his parents' more traditional gear for bigger more important battles and formal dress wear for parties. Off to the far right in similar spacing is a diamond white marble table and soft circle feather stuffed pillows. This is their dining area. On top of the diamond is a multitude of foods that seemingly never expire or deteriorate. In between the far left and far right are more pillows for leisure and surrounded by an abundance of golds and trophies showcasing their wealth and triumphed success.

Throughout the crescent’s floor and sparkling in the not so real sun’s rays, are his parents' sky blue and nebula purple feathers and matching scales. When Ingólfr was young, he used to get so excited and would pick up every last one to place in his nest but nowadays he lifts his golden eyes away and ignores them. They were always a trap that brought no good. Every time.

He would be dragged to the court and retaught the many fighting techniques his mother is proud of. Even if he were to perfect it, his mother would demand him to do it again and how it was the utter worst she has ever seen. Any other phim could have done it in less time. They do it in less time. No matter if he was torn up worse than a ragged used cloth, he would still be demanded to continue unless mother said otherwise.

Sometimes when he was younger, Ingólfr would look to his father-for he is never far from his mate-with large, pleading eyes and chirps of distress to stop this madness and he in response, would get blatantly ignored, left to the sum of his injuries. He learned to stop after his mother taught him that he is in no shape to gain help from others for being the scum he is. A weapon does not deserve kindness Afterall.

After training, he had time to ‘cool off’ which is just another name for his parents waiting for the pitch blood of dark starlight to stop bleeding so profusely from anywhere and everywhere on him and dragged farther into the territory his parents claimed since they were young. Scars and wounds are not a new adjustment to him after all this.

Ingólfr usually would be seated at the diamond they call their enrichment hall and snipped over the best and most chivalrous way to eat. He would be rough housed and maneuvered on the best way to hold his posture and all sorts of foods. Who knew that even at dinners, he’d have to keep up this perfection for his parents.

However, yesterday Ingólfr was approached by his mother stomping over, her constellation halo swirling faster than ever, and then with no warning, dragged him angrily to one of the places he has never been brave enough to venture near, his parents' trophy lounge. Even as a hatchling, he was never daring enough to even step close to the outer portions that mark their ‘rooms.’

Ingólfr squawked quietly in sudden confusion. His shattered runic halo spinning in place. His mother’s face darkened at the sound and her fins lowered. His mind raced as his head was pushed down and he was forced to kneel before the gold. His wings in response flexed out on both sides in a mighty show of power and a save for himself. His body seemed to read the scene quicker than he could. His breathing began to become uneven from fear of what was to come. It was never good when his mother came marching over. Past his vapor made mane his upper neck was in the clasp of his armored mother’s claws and turned to gaze before the mighty fruition and accomplishments of Daywind’s Golden Trident and the Raveflame Swordmaster.

He trembled harder as his mother cooed in their mother tongue of Norse, “Look,” her scaled chest rumbling in a false sense of comfort. That was never a good sign. If ever. Her eleven feet stature and matching impressive wingspan looming over him. Even for a nine feet stall Phim, she towers over him like it is nothing. It was nothing. “Look at what your parents are capable of, of what we are known for.” The constellation halo gleaned wickedly above as her armored talons scraping along his scales on his cheekbones and sinking into his scales, “No one will ever look to you for the same measures of wealth unless you give in to us and fucking learn.” The words were a bit hard to hear for others because of her strong Norse accent but to his ears they rang strong. They rang angrily. Her fins fanned out and shook, matching her anger as she raised the other arm, and grabbed into one of his large leathery wings then quickly slashed down. The armored talons pierced in and tore right through. “We take time out of our days to teach you, to guide you and yet you barely scrape by with that insolent mind of yours!”

Ingólfr tried to quiet the squeals, but they escaped unwanted from his open snout in pain. Deep in his chest underneath where his scales lay cracked and scared, something rattled and he jerked his body side to side, trying to get away. His crest shaped tail slashed toward his offender, and she moved her heavier body-with added weight from her gear-to stand upon it. A high-pitched sound from deep in his soul screamed in distraught. Utter disbelief and loss crossed his face mixed with the fear and agony. His fins wiggled matching his confusion and pain.

He could not understand why she was doing this. Again and again with every word, she slashed up his wings and passed through his vapor mane onto some of his back. “You are supposed to do as you are told! It isn’t that hard to follow simple directives. Our words are as The Weaver tells! Our words are law,” Her solar eyes blazed in tremendous fury. Her talons soon were covered in dark starlight blood. His blood. Her body shook as she hissed, fangs glinting dangerously, “Our words are power! I brought you into this life to ensure our bloodline. To ensure a perfectly crafted weapon to serve our Weaver,” She pauses, chest rising and descending fast with her rushed blood. “I sure as hell can take you out of it. You are no use to me if you do not comply and do as you are told!” The Norse words spew from her mouth in rage. She drags her head closer, not blinking even as she passes by his vapor made mane. The edges of her helmet digging into his face made dark droplets appear to the surface past his scales. She whispers sharp, growling a promise of even more pain if he is to not follow her words.

Ingólfr opens his snout to ask why. Why is this happening? He followed every command down to the fine detail every single time. So why. Why?!

His father lay off in their oval nest of feathers and watched with eyes cold and disinterested. He lay curled up nice and snug as his son was terrorized by his mate. His six feet scaled body was comfortable and dressed in his usual metallic gear. With every inhale and exhale, his tail swished in irritation.

Ingólfr chirps low and distressed, sobs mixed with the blood that runs down his neck and through the vapor mane from him tossing around extremely lost as to why his mother is in so much anger. He thought he was doing good; he was following any and all they demanded of him. He said less and reacted even to nothing.

And yet, “Let this pain remind you and teach you that you deserve nothing but power as power ruins through your very veins. You are the product from a bond of I, Daywind’s Golden Trident and the Raveflame Swordmaster. You cannot be anything less. There is no room to be anything less. The Weaver gifted us your life form for he accepted our queries and approved of them!” Her solar eyes opened wide and crazed as she lectured, pushing harder upon Ingólfr’s body. His body shook, sobs and panicked chirps escaping him.

She ignored him and continued, “Weaver knew of our plans and graciously accepted! You are to be useful and not like the disgrace you have been so far! Learn what we teach you. Turn this pain into power for power belongs to those who make it so! No other Phim is worthy of holding it!” She stopped all of a sudden before gripping harder one last time. “Or you can say goodbye to everything.” She released his wings, talons and gear soaked in his dripping blood and as she stepped off his tail, bashed his head onto the ground one last time. Ingólfr lay shivering on the ground, body weeping in so much pain and bowed at the mercy of his towering mother, powerful father and their acquired wealth.

She scoffed, growled louder than ever and walked over to her nest, “Be grateful I left you another damn chance to fix yourself.” She curled around her mate and lay down. Her head up and gazing displeased to his quavering body. “Even if you do not deserve this kindness.”

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Loud but weak sobs shook his scaled body as he tuned in and out of the memory. His shattered halo quivering in tune to his pain above his head. His head pounded with every breath. His wings membrane and back skin scales barely healed from the aggravated treatment his mother sent them through. His body shaking and causing even more pain to be sensed and blood to spill. His fins lay pressed hard down along his body.

Beneath him over and into the feathers, leaves and scales he lay on, his dark starlight blood pooled continuously heavily and caused his body to gain unwanted stains. His eyes fluttered sporadically matching his breathing before it suddenly stopped. All together he passed out and ran off to the memories of cold but soothing darkness and blank nothingness.

—----------------—

Gasping, Ingólfr awoke spazzing, breathing out of control. His entire being shook with pain caused him to chirp in heartache. He thought he was doing so well! It has been years since his mother’s last outbreak, and he thought he was in the clear. He has been doing absolutely perfectly with no talk backs or unnecessary comments. He questioned no directive and yeah, his mother barely gave him praises or any good wells, but he was taught to overlook those because as the heir of his name, he is to be born of pain and power. Any pain is to be deserved until he is passed perfect. There was no room to showcase love or affection, only training.

Ingólfr’s voided eyes, blurry and hazy, looked around his nest. He had no memory of how he left his parents' territory, only the pain and words of anger. Slowly moving, he looked over his shoulder to his scattered shredded wings. Tears dripped down his face. Flying is one of the many things he takes pride in and until he heals, there is no way he could do so again. If he is ever to be able to again. He hopes so. He wishes so. There are many in the Elysiphim that have gone through injuries to their wings and can no longer enjoy the sky. His eyes flutter again, and his head drops to the ground, passing out from the pain from his small movements. The nest beneath him is starting to stain deeply.

—----------------—

Twitching, Ingólfr moves his head and body, groaning in pain but he no longer shakes. His head no longer pounding. Blinking his golden void eyes, he looks around and comes face to face with blood-stained leaves and feathers. And scales that dig sharp into his own scaled body.

Shakingly placing an arm down, he grips the ground and pushes off. With an ease he forgot about, his body rises and holds steady but fatigued. His wings droop behind him and his tail slithers to right itself of his balance. He drags his other arm up to push off and moves to sit, stumped with bone deep exhaustion. His legs tremble a bit and he dares not stand. His tail came to curl around him.

He sits there and watches the sky through his tree leaves, chest shakily breathing and still in pain but no longer in agony. Tears run smoothly from his eyes, weeping softly.

—----------------—

When Ingólfr awakes again, he’s able to pick himself up and step out of his nest on fragile legs. He limps to the edge of his small territory and stretches out his wings with no hiss of pain.

Holding his breath, he moves his head over his shoulder and takes a look over his body. Now in the bright not-so-real-sunlight, he sees the purple and blue newly fresh scars that litter his back and wings. The soft bubblegum pink and plume purple bruises that scale his tail and most likely the back of his neck as well.

His eyes scrunch and unforgotten pain rattles deep in his soul, his own mother did this to him. Shaking his head from the mess that this is, he takes steps toward father out of the field before he hesitated and made his way father into his nest. He slowly bends down to grab his gear off the ground and his trees. He shimmies his way through fastening them along his body and claws. He may not like others seeing him in pain for this is his alone to bear, he is in desperate need to not be alone with his thoughts and memories. Not anymore. Not any longer. He stepped again outside his territory and walked off.