#being a fan of Shadow and Team Dark is like choosing a fate worse than death tbh

[theprinceandthewitch]

When Sonic said Shadow had no friends I was SHOCKED because like.... bro why is this show trying to gaslight me into thinking Rouge isn't one of his friends?? 😭

[skellysdomain]

Whumptober - Day 1: Shaky Hands

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749931

Summary: Zane was preparing for a great many things in life. His death, his death at the Boss Koff's hands, his eventual imprisonment for some crime he committed. He wasn't prepared to rescue royalty from a burning building.

He didn’t really intend on getting into any situations while in town. Not really.

Zane had been walking along the alleyways, eyes sweeping over every crack and crevice he knew with familiarity. The alleyways of the high-class neighborhoods in the city of Djerad Thymar were usually filled to the brim with guards, hence why he used them more often than not to get back to his safe-house. None of Koff’s men would lurk around where the Dragon Guard would be. But those Guards were strangely absent during the night. 

A sharp chill of dread wavered down his spine, a flicker of apprehension flickering like an icy flame in his stomach filling him to the brim with more paranoia than usual. That should’ve been his first first warning. His paranoia was rarely wrong. And he never got that lucky with the Fates, they must hate him by now.

He wrapped his coat even further around him and sunk into the shadows. The moon shone bright and ominous in the sky like an all-seeing eye that followed his movements. He turned the corner and continued walking, albeit at a faster pace. 

A scream sounded out. 

It rang down the street and Zane froze. The scream was one of pain and absolute grief, rattling in his eardrums like a haunted memory. Chills ran down his spine and set him on edge, the dark haze of grief clouding him for a moment before he shoved it back. He could feel his own feet shifting towards the source, his mind fighting his body every step he reluctantly took. This is a bad idea, bad idea, badidea--! 

His feet gained traction on the cobbled ground and soon he was running, sprinting towards the scream. Koff was right when he called me a dumbass, wasn’t he, Zane despaired inwardly. First it was killing his men, now it was running to help someone out. What was it gonna be later, saving a person in distress?

With that scream, it probably was, knowing his absolutely rotten luck.

He swung around the corner in time to see several figures darting past. They wore all black and grays, with an odd symbol plastered on their backs. He couldn’t make out what it was, but by the time he made to step forward, all of them sunk into the shadows, easily enough that he couldn’t see. Dread sunk further into his chest and dropped like a lead ball into his stomach. He hurriedly pulled his hood down further, in hopes of avoiding whatever the hells this was.

If they could do that, chances were that they were rogues, and skilled enough that he couldn’t detect them even from twenty feet away. Which meant, for a rogue team, only one of a few very bad things. Given that this was a royal neighborhood, assassination was high up on that list of very bad things. 

And then Zane noticed the house. 

A large five or seven story house loomed in front of him. Black smoke billowed out of decorated windows and he could spot orange flames flickering in and out of them. Already, he heard the groaning of planks and wood as the fire inside ate up the interior. What are you even doing here, run away, this is a bad idea--!

He wished he listened to his subconscious just once. It might’ve saved him some trouble. 

Sneaking towards the house, he tried to look into one of the windows for a glimpse inside. Large black boards seemed to block his view, any lingering doubts about the suspected crimes evicted by the evidence right in front of his face. Right, so why was he getting involved again?

He shrunk away from the window, but the scream still rattled in his mind. Sure, he did what he did, but he wasn’t a bad person for doing those things, not in any way that counted for him. 

But if he left someone in there, that could be innocent, or a child, because even assassins didn’t care about children when they did their jobs. Or, that was exactly what they were hired to do. He wracked his brain for who lived here, but damn was it hard to think when he had no time. 

Fuck it. 

At least he might be able to gain some favors or even morality back if he did this. 

Zane sized up the building and scanned the windows. It seemed that every single one was boarded up except for a small gap in the upper floors where he might be able to slip through. Grimacing, he scaled the building with relative ease, until he reached the iron framework of the window. 

He reached a hand to grasp at the frame and gasped as pain seared across his palm. When he yanked his hand back hurriedly, Zane cradled it against his chest while stinging pulses ran down his wrist. He bit his lip to avoid the curse that almost spilled out. 

The palm of his hand was a red, bloody mess. A layer of skin peeled off and blood trickled down the sides where blisters were beginning to form. All in all, not great for a surgeon. Fuck, fuck, fuck--! 

This night really wasn’t going well. He bit off an ugly curse after wrapping his hand in a spare bit of gauze and continued reaching the window. Being careful this time, he used a dagger to hook the window open and peered inside. 

A large plank covered the window, but left large gaps on either side. Flames were engulfing the interior and he had to cover his face with a rag in order to peek in. This was already getting too risky, he didn’t know why he was even doing this, even if there was someone inside. 

A force, a feeling, something was urging him on. It terrified or excited him and he didn’t know which one to choose. He felt like it was leading him forward, and while he didn’t usually listen to these feelings or instincts, this one felt right for once.

A horrendous groaning came from within and he winced. Time to get the hells going, Vilrath. 

With that, he ducked through the gap and tumbled inside. His belt got stuck part way through, and he had to twist awkwardly through. He yelped as he landed on the scorching floor and his shoulder jolted painfully. He grit his teeth and rode through the pain, pushing himself up and crouching low near the floor.

Smoke and ash blurred his vision and constricted his lungs. Zane scanned the room around him with a grim realization. He began coughing, muffling them with his sleeve and stumbled towards the door. Passing the small beds and the pile of charred toys, he walked into the hallway. 

The fire was even worse there. Portraits, probably of ancestors and beyond, burning up into scorched remains, and tapestries that lit up in fiery curtains lined the hallway. One by one, he ducked into each room. 

The first was a massacre. Two bodies, dragonborn and disemboweled on the carpet, glistening intestines cooking on the ground. All he could do was stare for a moment or two while flames roared on. He didn’t check before moving onto the next room. 

The second and third engulfed in flames, far too blistering for anything to have survived. Waves of heat lapped over him and sweat dripped down his body. 

He slipped into the fourth, and nearly tripped on a body on the floor. He grunted in pain as his legs tangled up and he tumbled over onto the floor, jostling his shoulder and landing on his hand. Pain shot up his wrist and he nearly curled into himself, if it weren’t for the brilliant purple eyes staring back at him. By the Fates, there’s someone still alive in this mess.

Zane shot up and scrambled over to what he could see now was a dragonborn with red scales that glistened with fresh blood. A large tear opened up their chest, and fleshy pink organs spilled out. Her heart beat fast and weakly where he saw it in view, and he nearly gagged at the visceral sight. It was so much, even for someone like him, and he cut people open on a weekly basis. 

Before he could get a word out, a clawed hand shot out and dragged him forward with relentless strength. He nearly fell over their form as they pulled him in. A steady and agonized look gleamed in their eyes, one of steel will and fading life. They pulled him and close and croaked to him, “Find...him. They...will p-pay.” 

Zane’s eyes widened in surprise at her words and he barely registered her feminine tone along with the words she uttered. “Who,” he demanded quietly, the fire blazing and crackling around them, “who is it?” 

“My--” She coughed and coughed more, blood pooling down her chin. The smoke filling the air wheezed in her dying lungs, and she took her last breath, twitching still. Her eyes were open and lifeless. The purple gaze still stared him in the eyes, branding those words into his soul. 

Find him. 

Zane let her hand slip to the floor and reached out with his injured hand to close her eyes. He could hear his own breathing, harsh and croaking in the ashy air. He had to get moving, or he would leave her wish to die here with him.

He struggled to sit up, a feat only done by bracing himself against the dresser and pulling himself up. This sure as hell wasn’t his line of work, and any stamina that he had was gone at this point. Lurching through the door, he aimed for the final door at the end of the hall near the stairs. 

The sturdy door hung wide open, splintered on its hinges and barely connected to the frame, which the flames quickly engulfed and raced down the edges. The feat in itself was terrifying enough since every time he’s opened one of these doors, they’ve been built heavily for protection. But at least he didn’t have to worry about opening it. The heat dried his eyes and tears ran down his face, the combination of the pain in his body and the harsh blaze wearing him down, bit by bit. 

Zane approached the doorway cautiously and darted inside, flames fanning around his face and tightening his skin painfully. He startled as he came face to face with a white-scaled dragonborn. They glared at him from their place leaning against the bedpost, blood and white fluid leaking from a long cut down their face. An arm clutched their bloody side and he could tell they were swaying where they stood. Not good, he thought internally, there could be a vital organ hit, most definitely if these were assassins.

Zane made eye contact with one furious purple eye before they reeled back and let out a gust of icy white breath. Shit--!

The flames reared back and flickered out, tiny, jagged ice crystals pelting his face like a thousand sharp needles until he dodged out of the way. He slammed into the dresser nearby, and glanced back at the doorway. 

Ice glossed over the whole door-frame, sharp icicles hanging from the top. Already, it was dripped from the heat in the hallway, but Zane couldn’t help but be a little afraid. Part of his body was blanketed with frost that melted a bit on his arm and stung the burn on his hand. 

Looking forward, the dragonborn was now slumped on the floor, barely clinging to life and alertness. Zane inched forward, holding out his hands, but the dragonborn merely glanced at him, hostility in every part of their posture. 

“I-I’m here to--” he coughed hoarsely into his sleeve, still covered in frost which actually helped from the smoke in the air. “I’m here to help you!” His voice was barely above a croak, and it started another coughing fit which left his lungs screaming for fresh air. I’d let ‘em decide, but we’ve been in here for far too long. 

His vision wavered dangerously, and with a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed their arm and lugged it on top of his shoulders. The immediate weight of their hefty scales nearly made him tip over, but he persisted, and they made their way through the door and to the stairs. 

The rest of the hallway was already consumed in flame, so his entrance was blocked. That left any exit downstairs, undoubtedly where the assassins had exited. If the upstairs was this bad, Zane was not looking forward to downstairs. 

The dragonborn was responsive of a sort, muttering to themself and dragging their feet across the scorching floor. Over the roar of fire and the cracking of wood, he heard, “...Lil...Lilieth. Why…” but couldn’t make out anything else. 

If they were to collapse now, he doubted he would make it with the dead weight of their scales. He ducked underneath a collapsed beam, pushing the dragonborn first and wincing when his shoulder scraped along the hot, blackened log. 

The stairs were so far untouched except for some fire licking up the side of the flooring. 

Turning the corner, Zane nearly threw up right there. 

A pile of numerous bodies, smoldering and cooking in the middle of the room. Sprawled out limbs and organs stuck out of the pile, a face stared sightlessly towards him. The room reeked of rotting death and smoke, and bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. The dragonborn openly stared, their one eye wide open in horror and suffocating grief. Every part of their body was shaking with contained fury, but he pulled her over to the door. 

The door was jammed shut, one plank pinned under the knob with several large nails and a dagger shoved underneath the frame. Zane swore under his breath as the smell of cooking flesh grew stronger and he frantically looked around for another way out. And then he caught sight of it.

Past the pile of bodies and through the haze of smoke, a large window sat overlooking the back of the house. Most of the bottom was boarded up, except for one hastily stacked plank that didn’t look attached to the wall. 

Taking a wheezing breath, Zane smothered his mouth and dragged the dragonborn over past the dead pile of people. They looked over the bodies, a sorrowful sound rumbling in their chest until it turned into a hacking fit. 

The plank came swimming into view, a decidedly relieving sight. He propped up the dragonborn on the wall and they groaned at the rough treatment, but Zane thought they’d be grateful if he got them both out of there and inspected the wood quickly. 

A single, large nail kept it attached firmly to the rest and it would have been easy enough for those of his build or similar to get out, but not someone like the dragonborn next to him. Millions of thoughts ran through his mind, but he jerked himself back to reality, positioning his hands on either side of the plank. 

He tensed up and pulled, grained wood digging painfully into his burned hand and ripping the skin off in patches. Blood started to drip down the wood and he heaved again, straining his arms and gritting his teeth to muffle the cries that wanted to come out of his mouth. 

But then, a white-scaled hand came into view and grasped the plank, giving one hefty tug and yanking the plank off the window. He staggered back and the dragonborn slumped against the window with the wood tumbling against the floor. 

In the moment he sprawled on the floor, several burning beams from the floor above broke, tumbling down on his form. He yelled out, the beams searing through his cloak and blistering his skin on contact. 

One pinned his bad arm at an awkward angle and his leg was stuck under the others. He wheezed and gasped, the pain overwhelming his thoughts and smoke clogging his damaged lungs. By the Mask, I’m gonna burn alive--

Frigid air flared above him and the smoldering heat stooped to a bearable level, frost flickering above his vision and over the singed wood. The weight on his limbs lessened and he was pulled up by the dragonborn.

Though relief flowed through him, he wrapped their arm around his neck, not giving a moment’s pause before dragging them out of the house. No time, it’s gonna--

A fiery roar echoed out from behind them, as the house collapsed inwards on itself, only the metal framework sticking out from the burning wooden heap. A wave of heat washed over them and blew his hood back. The blaze caused plumes of black smoke to drift into the air and blot out the moon and stars. 

He could only stare in mourning, for strangers he never knew. The images, of the red-scaled dragonborn woman, of her last words echoed in his head, of the couple slaughtered at the foot of their own bed, of the dozens of corpses piled in a messy heap. 

The dragonborn shook next to him, but he forced himself to look away and stagger onto the cobblestones of the street.

They limped away, bedraggled and nearly dead from the whole situation. But, they were alive. That had to count for something. They made it almost all the way before the dragonborn slumped to their knees, not even half-conscious of anything around them. 

Using both arms, he hauled them up and kept walking, their pace staggered but quicker than nothing. Stumbling to the door, he fumbled for the key, failing several times before unlocking it successfully. 

Adrenaline was leaking from his limbs and the pain set in, the pain nearly stopping him from walking as it throbbed with his racing heartbeat. His lungs still ached from the smoke, unable to even fully breathe in a deep breath.

Zane propped up the dragonborn on the couch, watching as their one eye slowly closed, but only sluggishly comprehending what that meant. And then it hit him. Shit, fuck, they’re dying, I gotta, gotta stop it, where’s the fucking kit--! 

He scrambled around for the kit, whipping it up and pulling out his surgical supplies and setting to work. Every time he moved one of his limbs, pain ignited from the burn and raced up the appendage. But he forced himself to concentrate. It wasn’t often he saved someone, after all. 

His hands shook, especially the blistered one, which the blisters had popped and stung viciously when he exposed it to open air. He kept going, working on their abdomen and trying to stitch the source of the bleeding shut. 

It took a while, and he lost track of time, the blur of pain and lack of oxygen making itself apparent once he attempted to finish his delicate work. Though he went through two health potions, he got the last stitch in and they still breathed. He slumped into the chair nearby and stiffened as light burns on his back made themselves known. 

Every time he shifted, he jostled another burn or injury, so he reluctantly snatched up another potion and downed it quickly, silently mourning the loss of another valuable. The burns numbed a bit and his lungs seemed to open up as he took in a deep breath of air. He settled down in the chair and sighed, resting his still injured shoulder on the armrest and propping up his leg on the coffee table. 

Wouldn’t hurt to take a rest now, would it? Nah, I bet not...

---

Slam! The room rattled as someone entered the safe house, and shut the door violently behind them. The glass bottles and tools rattled on the metal table Zane had next to him with the force of it.

Zane nearly startled from his work, elbow deep in his latest experiment, though his other arm was out of commision still. Without looking up, he called out, “Did you get the supplies?” Not expecting an answer like all the other times, he took a step back to clean up when he noticed her form at the doorway. 

Perra stared at him with her same stony expression, one lone, purple eye glaring down at him. “People usually rest with injuries like those.” She stated blandly.

“Well,“ he wiped his hand with a cloth and grinned, adjusting his glasses out of his face, “I got bored. This work is as good as any. Besides, it barely took any energy.”

“We didn’t have a corpse in here this morning.” She deadpanned.

Zane’s smile creased into a smirk. “I know. But like I said, barely any energy. I hardly even had to work.”

“Right…” She trailed off. “It’s time to change your bandages. Don’t do that.”

About to reach up to brush his white hair back, he chuckled sheepishly and lowered his blood-slicked hand down. It wasn’t the first time it happened, but less and less often when Perra was around. But he winced internally at her statement. 

“Oh man, I could swear that was later--” But stopped at her signature look that screamed ‘you’ll do it or I’ll come and make you’ which was terrifying enough in itself but he knew she would follow through. “I’ll be right there, let me clean up first.”

She took a second to stare him down again and nodded, seemingly satisfied. After she walked off, he relaxed in relief though still tense for what was in store. Sighing, he looked down at himself. 

He still wore his spare clothing, but stripped down to his tunic and plain pants for the surgery. Bandages peeked out of his sleeve and his right pant leg, where the beams had given him some nasty second-degree burns. His arm was undoubtedly worse, what with his hand being a mangled mess, and his shoulder just about twisted out of the socket. 

It had been two weeks since the fire. After they got back and he’d passed out, he was woken up rather abruptly by a clawed hand around his neck. It turned out, Perra wasn’t really good around others while sleeping. He could only guess why. 

She tried questioning him and passing out in the middle of a conversation wasn’t really his style, but his body decided to tap out right then and there, which is when he woke up on the couch instead. 

Zane’s only known her for these two weeks, but even without that time, he can tell the fire burned down any happy personality she had. Perra was stony and cold on the best days, and furious and bitter on the worse ones. She never got violent, at least not with him, but several objects in the house had their fair share of her fury. He hated to be the people who messed with her. 

It was only by his weird luck that she was technically royalty, too. Through her sister, the one who died in his arms, no less. That fucked anyone up. 

Her last words still ringing in his ears, he mindlessly cleaned up, draping a cloth over the corpse and disposing of any organs in a small basket he would throw to the strays later. He limped out of the room and to the living room, where Perra waited. 

They got settled in a quiet and calm silence, when she started unraveling the bandages. 

Long streaks of red arced up his back and marked his shoulder and leg. Purple bruises still circled his shoulder while his leg was merely red and swollen from working. She handed him a potion and ordered, “Drink this.”

“Where did you even get this?” He asked incredulously. The bottle was a standard red for a healing potion, but instead of the usual lesser one he got, it was a larger normal healing potion, twice the size of the lesser. 

“Somewhere. Now, drink,” she replied coldly. He quieted down and sipped it until it was gone. The burns on his back receded and the bruises faded into a healing yellow, but there was still a lot of wounds left that pulsed angrily in the cold air. 

She got to work applying the salve and he gritted his teeth to avoid crying out. He clenched the seat of the couch with his good hand as she finished with his back and moved onto his limbs, saving his hand for last.

Wrapping the rest up, Perra carefully unraveled the bandage around his right hand. He looked away, but he already knew what it looked like. The skin bubbled, melted and healed in odd places, ridges and thick scar tissue disabling it, most likely permanently. 

Zane stewed in his darker thoughts while she did this, ragged, angry, bitter thoughts that he forced back down and shut away. He got into this mess. He saved someone. That was it, in his book. But somehow, his own mind couldn’t see it that way. He hated thinking sometimes. 

Once she finished, he slumped exhaustedly into the couch cushions, the pain draining all of his energy. Every time they did this, he wholehearted wished they could still afford pain medicine or better healing potions. 

Perra abruptly got up and walked out of the room, and Zane was left with the silence of the house and pretended not to hear the faint clinking of bottles.