The light of a crackling fire gleamed off the blades and steel of the eleven small Pokemon surrounding it. Their leader had left them a well-cooked Zangoose and gone off on his own to hunt for what he would eat the following morning, as he always did. The Pawniard he ruled—all except Switch—were required to sit and eat every bite of edible meat, ensuring nothing went to waste. They hardly had to be told to do this, however, as this was their only meal for the day, and possibly the next, or even the one after that. Hunting did not always yield success, nor was there always enough to go around after a successful hunt.
Damascus was the only one present who had eaten less than three bites, instead more focused one watching the trees surrounding the clearing for any sign on Cutlass's return. She had said she'd be back by the time dinner started. Why wasn't she? It wasn't like her at all...
One of his packmates noticed how distracted he looked and spoke just above the rest of the chatter.
“Still waiting for Cutlass?”
The unexpected question being directed at Damascus caught him off-guard, and he turned back more quickly than he needed to, jumping a little.
“Oh, yeah. I know you probably don't care, but someone has to.”
“I'm just glad I don't have to listen to her crap all evening,” another of the pack cut in from the opposite side of the fire. “I think you and I both know she would've gone on all night about killing this stupid Zangoose.”
Everyone but Damascus nodded and muttered in general agreement.
“And you wouldn't have done the same?” Damascus raised his voice, tone hardening just noticeably. Everyone else stopped their chatting and faced him as he stood abruptly from his seat, raising one accusing blade to point at all of them.
“I may not have the rank to give anyone orders yet, but the minute I do, this kind of shit had better stop.” His eyes darted among theirs as he continued. “And Arceus help you all if anything should happen to me that puts her in charge, because I know damn well she won't even tolerate it.” He put his arm to rest at his side, starting to turn away from them. “She already can't tolerate it,” he spat over his shoulder.
Without even waiting for a reply he was sure he didn't want to hear, he turned his back to them and left with utmost haste, trembling just a little. He headed in the direction of the sleeping quarters, his steps carrying both the force of his anger and the speed of his impatience. Involuntarily, the blades at the ends of his arms unsheathed a tad beyond their normal length—normally a Pawniard's natural response to being provoked into violence. He had to lift his arms forward a little to keep the steel from dragging in the dirt ground.
He stopped to peer into the cave with relative ease—thanks to being half Dark-type—and found it was devoid of any occupants. At this, he kept going past it, to the left of the cave's opening when exiting it. From there, he only had to hike a relatively short distance to his destination.
The Steel-type reached the summit of the moon-bathed mountain he was to inherit. It was a patch of flat rock only just large enough for a few occupants, perhaps the length of two or three Seviper if they straightened their bodies out, with a few trees taking up some of that space. As suspected, Cutlass was hunched over at the end of it, sitting with her legs crossed. She didn't notice her brother standing a short distance behind her until the wind picked up and swished past his bladed armor. The moment she heard the familiar sound, she whipped around to face him, wearing an expression that told Damascus she hadn't expected anyone to come looking for her. When she noticed who it was, however, she was calm again.
“I'll eat dinner later,” she forced her voice to stay even and turned back around, wiping her arm across her eyes. Damascus knew right then and there he wasn't leaving for a while.
“Are you okay?” he approached her, knowing the answer already.
“I'm fine,” she sniffed. “The wind just got into my eyes, that's all.” He bit his lip, coming to her side.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“The wind? No.” She still faced straight ahead, purposefully avoiding eye contact. He shook his head, cutting his eyes off to the side and back to her again.
“Cutlass, you're a lot of things, but a skilled liar isn't one of them, thank Arceus.” He got down on one knee, and placed the flat side of his blade on her shoulder. Only then did she turn to look at him, tears still evident at the corners of her eyes.
“You know you can always talk to me about anything, don't you?”
She stared into his eyes for a brief moment, trying to keep her expression neutral. “... I know.” She faced forward again, the moon's light shining brightly in her eyes as she stared at it, trying to avoid his eyes. “But I don't want to talk about it.”
Damascus removed his blade from her shoulder and seated himself beside her. “No one ever really wants to, but everyone needs to, Cutlass.”
“Touché ,” she forced a weak smile, but still avoided his eyes, looking to the faint light of the stars overhead instead. “I'd really rather not, though.”
“I guess I can't very well force you to, then,” Damascus spoke in a sigh, facing the same way she did, but still keeping her just on the edge of his vision. “Maybe one of these days I'll get it out of you... somehow.”
“You'd have to hold me down first...” she mumbled nonchalantly.
Knowing her, she very well could have meant that literally, but Damascus heard it a slightly different way. He choked for a moment when he tried to swallow just then, and immediately faced away from her, feeling his face heat up. He mentally chided himself for thinking that way—let alone thinking that way around his own sister—and covered his face from her view with one oddly-shaped blade.
“You okay?” she raised an eyebrow.
“I'm fine,” his voice cracked a little. He swallowed again, and managed to succeed this time. “I think I just coughed up a bit of stomach acid, that's all...” he lied to her. He'd found himself lying to her more and more as of late. He hated himself for it, but what other choice did he have?
Cutlass, oblivious of this, shook her head and rolled her eyes. “You're such a spazz lately, you know that?”
“I know...” he mumbled.
She scooted a bit closer to him and leaned into his side, closing her eyes. He tensed just minutely at her touch, but regardless, put an arm around her. He laid his blade to rest on her stomach, between her two sets of protruding ribs. The shiny had to remind himself she was only leaning on him like this because it was late and she was tired after a day of hunting and hiking. It meant nothing more than that.
It would never mean anything more than that.
--
The day after the next, Cutlass and Damascus were due for their monthly sparring session, as was another pack member, Xiphos. Once every month or so, every pack member was required to spar with another in a “fake battle” of sorts, in which neither participant would be fatally injured. This would ensure that everything the Pawniard learned in previous combat training would be put to use even in times of peace, and their skills would stay as sharply whet as the blades with which they executed their advanced techniques. Pack leaders would oversee these sessions, and further advise them in areas where improvement was needed.
Damascus and Rapier watched from the very edge of the clearing, half-hidden by the trees. Cutlass stood at one end of the dirt patch and Xiphos, at the opposite end. He, being only a year or two her junior, had a fair chance of beating her.
The battle commenced when both Pawniard nodded once to one another.
Cutlass sprinted directly toward her opponent, planning to veer off a little at the last moment and give him a Night Slash in the side, but was cut off by a Sucker Punch. Knocked off-balance just enough, she had to take a second to right herself, spitting a muffled curse at him from behind the mouthpiece of her helmet. That move was so cheap!
Before Xiphos had another chance to do anything else, Cutlass followed through with her original attack, still making sure to only leave a relatively shallow cut in his side. While she was still close enough, however, he executed a hasty Assurance, the attack being made much stronger by Cutlass's previous move.
She was blown back a little, but still managed to land on her feet, even if crouching. Now Xiphos had gotten on her bad side. Fighting with such cowardly and dishonorable technique was something she had little to no tolerance for. She knew of one move she could use that could win her nearly any battle with a Pawniard—a move passed on to her through generations of her bloodline.
As soon as Xiphos moved in for another attack, she struck first with a Brick Break directly to the stomach. His reaction, however, was not what she'd expected. He was blown back a fair distance, but he somehow recovered and countered with Revenge. The attack's power was doubled, and she was already at a severe type disadvantage to it. She didn't stand a chance. She was knocked down and out by the sheer force of the blow, skidding in the dirt a short distance. She was halted abruptly when her back slammed against a boulder.
She dared not attempt movement after that, and instead only trembled from the pain.
It was his father's presence alone that kept Damascus from saying or doing anything out of line. He did, however, give Xiphos a rather nasty scowl, even if it wasn't visible with his helmet in the way.
“Cease,” Rapier's voice boomed, reverberating in the atmosphere just slightly. He collectively made his way to the center of the battlefield, walking with such a pace as if he had all the time in the world. “You did very well, Xiphos, but don't you think that was a bit much for a simple practice match?”
“Damn straight it was!” Cutlass shouted from the other end of the field before her packmate even had a chance to open his mouth, still lying back against the rock, holding the flat end of her blade to the bruise on her chest. “I demand a rematch! In a REAL fight!”
Her brother averted his gaze from that direction, nearly scoffing in disbelief of her request. Her father, however, merely looked down upon her and blinked, unfazed, as if he'd half-expected it.
“And why in the world should I allow that? Your injuries already render you useless for at least a day or two. What if you were both to be injured further because of your demand?”
“I would've won if he hadn't fought like a dirty coward!” she nearly screamed. “I could beat anyone in the pack if they fought with integrity--!” she was cut off by her own sudden fit of coughing. She spat the small amount of blood she'd hacked up onto the dirt ground before her, still glaring right at her father with defiance. “You've trained me well enough, I could probably beat YOU if I tried!”
Damascus was pretty sure his heart and stomach had just switched places.
A Pawniard NEVER spoke to their leader that way, even if they had a death wish. The punishment for defying a leader or questioning their ability to hold that position could very well be worse than just dying. The Dark-type clad in blue panicked inwardly, fearing for his sister's well-being. He ran up to Rapier, speaking a mile a minute.
“I-I'm sure she doesn't mean that, F-Father, and I apologize sincerely on her behalf. I'll go and talk to her, I can—”
Rapier raised one hand to Damascus to silence him, both eyes still fixed on Cutlass. To his heir's dismay, a glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes as a small smirk crept its way onto his face. He went over to Cutlass with the same gait as when he'd walked onto the field.
“No, Damascus,” he chuckled lightly. “She is eighteen years of age, and that is more than old enough for her to take responsibility for her own actions and words.” He took just a few steps nearer to his second-in-line, and bent down closer to look her in the eyes.
“Are you sure you want to stand by that claim, or should I let you off with a warning now?”
She didn't flinch. “I'm not afraid of you, Father. I meant what I said and I will prove it when I'm beckoned to.” Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.
“You do realize the penalty if you should be proven wrong, don't you?” he warned her one last time, raising an eyebrow at her. Still, her expression remained stoic, and she easily met his stare with own.
Meanwhile, Damascus cast her a pleading look that begged her not to answer, to be reasonable for once, to listen to him just this one time if never again...!
But she spoke anyway.
She spoke only one word, her tone devoid of any fear or hesitation.
“Exile.”
