Seth and the Prometheus Guild

Small Prisoner

Some days, the memories from a life before his capture felt almost like a they belonged to someone else.

Blinking his eyes open, the small prisoner could already tell it was the beginning of another such day. In his dreams he had been strong, his body flexible and nimble, a silent predator stalking inside a fragrant forest. Only to wake up and be confronted with fragile, useless skin in place of claws and scales.

Sitting upright, the prisoner looked at his hand, slowly wiggling his five fingers. They were small, pale, soft, his nail nothing more than a transparent, flexible chip without a sharp edge or point. His bones were so thin and badly protected he could feel them when he clenched his fist.

But instead of sad, this made him angry. He used the emotions swirling inside him to feed the ball off hatred warming his belly. Because it was all that ensured his survival after years of imprisonment.

His hate towards his captors allowed his mind to stay clear, no matter the staleness of his days. His hatred also gave him a purpose, a reason to stay alive, strong and sane: see all those who had wronged him suffer. Suffer and die.

The prisoner was quite proud considering his self-control. While he fed his hatred and used it, he didn't let it consume him. Not losing his head to impotent rage, he was instead biding his time, ready should an opportunity present itself.

His captors would slip up one day. It had happened before, with his fellow prisoner. The Angry One, as he had called him in his thoughts. Rash, strong but ultimately too dumb and impatient. The chance had been wasted on him.

But it allowed the prisoner to learn more about his captors - and why he shouldn't underestimate them, no matter their pudgy, weak bodies.

Because while humans had no venom, claws or sharp teeth, they had devices. Guns.

He was alerted by steps coming down a stairwell out of his sight. His cell was equipped with a tall glass panel, laced with a metal mesh - originally probably so the humans could study him but it in turn also allowed him to watch them. He expected to see one of his captors walk into view - it was usually their arrival that woke him up, on days his sleep wasn't overtaken by fading memories, startling him awake too early.

But instead of one of his white-cloaked captors, a Guard walked by. His eyes flicked over the cell, but never met the prisoner's gaze. Instead he checked the room once, before disappearing again.

Seemed like it was still too early for the Whitecloaks to arrive.

The prisoner had long ago split all the humans he saw into two categories. This helped him distinguish between them, mostly because human faces were nothing but fleshy blobs to him, looking too much alike. And his system worked quite flawlessly.

Those humans that always bustled around in a crowd and liked to cut him up or feed him poison all wore long white cloaks - hence their title, Whitecloaks.

The other humans moved with precision and a sharp gaze. They were also the ones carrying the 'guns', which meant the prisoner was paying more attention to them. While they hadn't harmed him directly - contrary to the Whitecloaks - they were the biggest obstacle to his revenge, right next to his sealed cell. Because even though they were stronger and bigger, humans apparently didn't consider those traits suitable for leadership. So, opposing all common instincts, they were forced to obey the puny Whitecloaks and even protect them.

To kill all the Whitecloaks, the prisoner would first have to go through the Guards.

The steps stopped echoing, meaning the Guard was patrolling another part of the building. The prisoner didn't know where he was or the layout or size of the building. He generally didn't know a lot about human dwellings and the way they were structured. The only places he was familiar with after years of imprisonment were his small cell and the room beyond the glass.