I've recently written this prompt for one of my comic characters, Izrael.
[Estimate: Sep. 2020]
It's incomplete for the time being since I've been indecisive on where to take the plot. His story is apart of the Soulless Arcana Universe (my own story/ non-franchise). Any terms in [brackets] means the words are subject to change in the future, or be edited. I haven't fully solidified any terms yet. I wrote this fic so I can try and flesh this character out! Enjoy! _________________________________________________________ [The Truth Trilogy]. It was a written retelling of Earth’s continental reshaping; a fully descriptive series of the Great Quakes, the reign of Prometheus, and the coming to be of the Arcana. These manuscripts were written by those who observed the happenings of that time period, and survived to document the exact events that took place.
For generations, the Trilogy was countlessly rewritten by hand to preserve the truth. If any copy were damaged, destroyed, lost, or taken, there we’re always numerous others kept in safe keeping for upcoming generations to read. The truth had to persevere. Future generations had to know of their ancestor’s tragedies.To loose this information would tarnish mankind.
Or so, that was what was taught to him.
To think this memory of rewriting the manuscripts happened to play right now, where young Izrael was busy at his desk. The setting sun rested on the empty booklet pages before him, the other rustic booklet beside him opened to page four hundred. He was frustrated at this point. He must have been writing for hours, maintaining a streak of no mistakes in his cursive. His left hand was pressed aggressively onto his forehead, his posture hunched over the new four-hundredth page of his copy.
How much longer did he have to keep writing?
His right hand throbbed from over use, enough to make him sit up and rub it. As he placed his quill down to massage the cramping muscles, he looked out the window and saw his sister’s talking. From his second-floor advantage, he could view the entire backyard garden and the luscious vegetables that grew around the perimeter. Sunset made these visuals all the more pleasing, but none the more amusing than the game his siblings were about to play. Myriam, the youngest, wore her gardening outfit—a set of brown rubber overalls and a yellow long sleeve shirt. Mahara, the eldest sister, was in her nicest attire—a lacy white dress that ended at her knees.
In Mahara’s hands was a chess set. Based on the way she was standing before Myriam, she questioned if the other wanted to play. Shovel in hand, Myriam shook her head, her puffy curls bouncing back and forth. It wasn’t difficult to see how angered Mahara became as her shoulders stiffened. Faintly and muffled, Izrael could hear just barely hear Mahara yelling, “You never want to play! All you do is keep to yourself! That’s so boring!”
Twelve-year old Izrael shook his own head in disbelief. Mahara was ten, she was old enough to note that being bratty would get her nowhere. Nine-year old Myriam surely knew this, and she reverted back to gardening. Mahara stood there for a moment, probably staring down their youngest. Izrael could merely guess as all he saw was the back of her braided head. At that, Mahara stomped away, returning back inside of the house and now out of his view.
Shortly after, he heard footsteps marching up the stairs. A hand slapped his bedroom door open, prompting him to turn around with a nonplused look. There she was, her face puffed in frustration. “Do you want to play?”
“I’m still writing,” he stated, his tone rather serious for someone his age.
Little Mahara hmphed, then plopped herself onto the rounded carpet. She placed the chess set in its center, her body shifting to sit onto her knees while preparing the pieces.
“Mahara, I said I’m busy,” Izrael repeated, this time with an annoyed whine.
“You’ve been writing your copy since you woke up. No one else is gonna play, so you might as well play with me,” she demanded, still setting the pawns into their single filed line.
Golden eyes looked at her older brother, brows furrowed and lips pursed. That determined gaze meant she wasn’t budging. She was a patient one...when she wanted to be.
Turning back around, Izrael flipped through his progress. He wanted to check if his letters remained pristine and smudge free. So far, his craftsmanship pertained to its neatness, and he felt confident enough to pause for the day. He turned around, his expression having never changed from its original, miffed state. “‘K fine, we can play.”
Little hands clapped gleefully, a giddy tone leaving the suddenly cheerful girl, “Finally! This is gonna be so much fun.”
Izrael stood up for the first time in what must have been six hours. Outside of his bathroom breaks and lunch break, he diligently wrote his pages until his own sister felt neglected. The stiffness in his spine led him to lean backward, cracking the hunch and knots that formulated, following him sitting back down with criss-crossed legs. During his transition, he also unclamped his suspenders, granting his shoulders a break from the pressure.
“He’s atta meeting,” she smiled. “Mom’s cooking dinner, and Myriam is helping her, I guess.”
“Still. When people are busy, ya let ‘em be.”
Despite her brother’s discipline, Mahara was happy as ever, and watched intently as he moved his first piece, the second to last pawn to his left.
She moved her pawn as well, the one directly across from his, and giggled, “Yeah, whatever! I know if no one’s around, you’ll always be there for me!”
“What if I’m not, though,” he remarked, moving the same pawn forward.
She hmphed, “Then we’d be enemies,” and moved the same pawn.
Her pawn was placed down aggressively, the bottom loudly thudding against the wooden chess board. Izrael looked up at her, her complexion scrunched like the little princess she was.
“Well, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Izrael sighed whilst moving the same pawn forward, only to watch Mahara do the same until both sides were face to face in a death-match. A groan left his lips, a hand resting on his forehead. “Also, you shouldn’t mirror my moves. Now our soldiers are stuck.”
A snarky cackle sounded from the haughty sister, her hands on her hips as she sassed, “You always win, so I should learn from the best.”
Again, Izrael sighed, “Yeah but, that move still didn’t get you anywhere. You have to learn to get better on ya own, not from copying me.”
His words landed on deaf ears when their mother called from below the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. The little white shoes Mahara wore clacked against the wooden floor boards outside of rug, signaling her immediate departure. She didn’t even bother saying whether they’d continue. No, dinner was more important than their failed chess attempt.
Izrael’s tired eyes observed his sister’s last move, chin rested in hand. She really admired him, didn’t she? Even though he spent most of his time studying than playing. Between the three of them, she was always the preppy one, the girl who wanted the spotlight. Unlike him and Myriam, who remained quiet and obedient, just like their father. He eventually took her pawn and cast it aside, along with the dozens of other members so he could put away the board. If he didn’t, then the dog might choke on the pieces.
The memory wrapped up there, almost like a perfect summary of his childhood. What a blurry memory at that, a dreamy vignette of a past long gone. Hell, was it ever real? Or was that some imagined scenario his brain mustered from whatever concussion he obtained? He couldn’t tell, not when he was roughly conscious enough to feel the surrounding atmosphere.
Cold, wet—the ground beneath him was unleveled. No, there was something under him, and what couldn’t be further from the smell of dried blood in his nostrils. A pounding headache met him moments after his eyes glanced at the darkened sky above, a hand coming to grasp the side of his aching head.
Slowly, Izrael sat up, his body covered in cuts and tattered clothing. His face was wrinkled with pain and dizziness, whereas his fuzzy location appeared in disarray, a lot like a recently disheveled battleground.
“What...the fuck,” he whispered under his breath.
What was the most recent memory? How did he find himself in this place, and why couldn’t he recall his position? He knew he wasn’t twelve, he was thirty-two. He knew his sisters weren’t around. No, they were on their own separate paths.
The hand propping up his body dug into the cool dirt below, shards of glass nestled between his fingers. Based on the ground temperature, he must have slept through the night, and the faint blue glow of the sky symbolized the inching morning. Although, that didn’t answer the real question of his previous events.
Basic senses began kicking in again. The first thing he knew was that he wasn’t alone, hence why his body snapped around from his lain form, glaring at the figure far behind him. Red eyes landed on a mech, the mysterious being perched on a thrown-like debris with their wings rested around them, similar to a blanket. An Angelus, but smaller.
An enemy.
Or so, an enemy of his newly discarded community. Sorry, ‘cult’. Yes, he remembered a debilitating disappointment in the movement he assumed was designed for the greater good. He wanted to dismantle it, and failed. So then, was this scuffle a repercussion of some coup, or did he get assaulted by the ever patient Angelus?
A deep voice, slightly synthesized, yet no further from a familiar human timbre questioned the fallen man, “Hmm, so you aren’t dead? I was beginning to get restless.”
What a chilling tone—as though the grim reaper was sitting there behind him, judging. Ahh, that’s probably exactly who they were. He couldn’t grasp the concept of Angeli terminology, but he could confidently say that this mech was the equivalency of the reaper.
“I must ask,” they followed,” are you still human?”
[A question such a that snapped Izrael awake, and his body fully turned around by dragging his legs to face his opponent. Yet, there was a lingering weakness that kept him bound to the dirt.] One better believe that this feeling left him on edge, his fingers digging into his scuffed forehead with an internalized rage. He tried desperately to hold up his head, pressing the palm of his hand into the sides of his temple to minimize the throbs. Glaring eyes remained locked on the mechanical knight, of whom never moved from their cozy perch.
Most of their lower body was draped in white, unscathed feathers. Their armor, almost pristine perfect and glazed with a black sheen. The shimmering red glows that peppered their frame shown the brightest in an otherwise darkened atmosphere. He documented their appearance, more over, he observed their stance. One move, and he was going to use the last of his energy to flee. There was no way he could fight in his current condition.
The Angelus noticed Izrael’s defensive air—as if the death-glare wasn’t enough of a clue. With the shake of their horned helm, they followed, “I’m not here to fight. Only to clean the ‘mess’, so-to-speak.”
Irregardless of the comforting words, he was on edge, his body tensing. Thereafter, another part of himself tensed, a new sensation he hadn’t quite experienced in his life. The softness of feathers brushed against his back, causing him to whip his head around. At the corner of his vision, wings could be seen, white ones. The hand pressed against the ground rose up and twisted back to feel the unfamiliar appendages. Yes, he could feel them. He could feel the same sensation as one would when their arm was being grabbed, or their leg. Izrael gasped, then pulled his hand away. Breathless, he uttered, “What? When...”
That same mech repeated themselves, “I suppose you no naught of your own situation.”
Izrael looked back upwards of the resting mech, finally choosing to speak, although irritated. “I don’t even know what fucking day it is, let alone what the hell happened.” Shortly after, he cursed a slew of irate vulgarities while collecting this thoughts.
Amused, the winged knight held a quiet chuckle. From analysis alone, the man below him was of no threat, nor was he inhuman. Yet, the wings adoring their back weren’t of human nature. This was their reason of awaiting the man’s awakening, to ask him of his species. There weren’t any documents regarding humans with wings. So, was the cursing individual an evolutionary step in a new branch of winged humans, or was he apart of something he shouldn’t have participated in? Whatever the case, the Angelus broke the silence yet again, speaking beyond questions and choosing to address the situation further.
“This is very interesting. I haven’t seen anyone quite like you in my line of work, and I’ve seen many gruesome abnormalities in my lifetime. I assume you don’t know who I am?”
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