Prisoner in Deep Confinement

A beast's muzzle cage strapped tightly around the prisoner's face, keeping the rebel from baring his fangs and attacking others.

Smell built the sensory world of Warmuhtar the Borisin: rain, dust, fire, fresh blood, medicine… stirred in the wind and spreading out from the deepest place of war, blending into a single scent that drowned every fiber of his flesh and every one of his nerve cells.

What he can smell now is the solid heaviness of the instruments of execution, and the cringing fear of the jurors.

He knows that these feeble judges are afraid of his sharp fangs… he once stood upon a sheer cliff, bathed in mad moonlight, feeling the urging of instinct in his blood. He followed the labyrinth of scents, slipped into the enemy camp under the darkness of a moonless night, and crushed the skull of every prey… Warmuhtar the Borisin worships those glossy fangs and regards them as blade and spear, the symbol of a strength and a confidence that can tear anything apart.

“The Borisin gnawed flesh and drank the blood of the innocent. He shall suffer confinement for life, his face sealed by a muzzle, and be examined upon ten grave crimes.”

Warmuhtar looks arrogantly around him. The swordsmen who were like a sea of ice drowning everything in fury are not here… He has no interest in these dull sentences of judgment.

Heavy shackles bind the hands tight, iron pins fix the wrists, and the rebel's sharp iron claws are held in check

When the clouds parted, the hazy moonlight fell upon the scarred body of Warmuhtar the Borisin. The enormous claws cut away by the silver-haired swordsman lay scattered beside him. The blood vessels of Warmuhtar, driven to the end of the road, throbbed violently, and with one long howl of pain the sharp claws grew back.

Catalyzed by the night of the mad moon, Warmuhtar could barely keep up with sword strokes like moonlight. He silently prayed for the power of Abundance and resolved to see the last beast duel through to the end.

He had forgotten how many times the Borisin army had broken out of encirclement by then, and remembered only that his people had torn open a way out with their claws many times along their line of advance, and then been surrounded tightly once again. The Borisin used their endlessly regenerating strength to tear apart every obstacle without ever tiring. Warmuhtar's blood soaked into his claws, and he fell into something like frenzy as he realized that he had nowhere left to escape to, and that there was no longer anyone chasing him either.

“The hands of the Borisin took countless lives. They shall be bound with lead and stone, and held under strict control.”

In the end Warmuhtar fell helplessly before the swordsmen, and for the first time he felt death drawing near along with an utter exhaustion. “Truly a peerless sword,” he thought all at once. “Truly an excitement beyond compare!”

Straps used to bind dangerous major offenders, with anti-warping joints that limit the prisoner's ability to transform his body.

The Borisin are warriors by nature. Their bone structure is broad and slender, their jaws and neck muscles are solid, their fangs are well developed, beast ears grow at the crown of the head, and their limbs bear sharp claws. They worship a strong body and regard it as a gift of the gods.

Warmuhtar was both the spiritual leader and the strongest of the tribe, commanding an army like a black tide and ruling over life and death upon the battlefield.

The fearsome beast ships covered the sky, and he saw his warriors struggling without rest upon the field of battle. Warmuhtar the Borisin felt the call of the Night of the Mad Moon. Sharp bone pierced through his body, and pitch black blood dissolved in the wind like mist. He spread his arms like a martyr. Borisin Wolf Venom, a pheromone of the most terrifying kind, scatters along with the mist and the blood, stirs the senses of the soldiers, and makes them look as though gods and demons had entered their bodies.

“O ancestors, grant us bodies of bronze and skin of iron. O ancestors, grant us the strength of the gods.”

He recalls the days when he was not yet bound. The children of the Borisin pass beyond the limits of the flesh under the night of the mad moon, tearing open muscle and skin and changing shape, and nothing is more painful or more terrible than that. To guide them was once a privilege and a duty reserved for the strong alone.

Metal fetters that bind the beast's legs, holding the despairing rebel in confinement and keeping him from escaping

The Borisin live as nomads in the galaxy and look down upon forms of civilization that have settled in one land. They take away peace and bring brutal war. Their harsh creed of survival forces them to fight without pause, and they always give themselves wholly to a life of swords, blades and spilled blood.

They have a faith and a way of their own: wherever the Borisin set foot, that place becomes their territory.

Warmuhtar the Borisin takes pride in having set the fires of war alight one after another, in crushing the dignity of defenders, in raising a cup to drink the tears of the homeless and displaced, and in trampling upon the faith of those closest to him. He lets thorns and weeds grow thick, ruins fertile land, makes slaves of the people and enjoys their luxury… It was in order to surpass the sovereigns of former generations that Warmuhtar had to give up stability, lead his soldiers out to explore the world beyond, make a name for himself and secure his position within the tribe.

“The Borisin sowed calamity, striking wherever he went and bringing disaster to every realm. Sentence: death, eternal confinement, and no rebirth.”

Warmuhtar is bewildered before the verdict. He looks around him, astonished at the judgment of the weak. Those so-called crimes are nothing more than the law of survival.