[ There were a lot of things that the Ravagers had taught Peter, after they had stolen him away from home:
Trust your fellow Ravager.
We steal from everyone but each other.
Don't ever. Ever. Ever fuck with magic.
Unfortunately for them, Peter had never been good at following instructions.
They had become something like his family over the past twenty some-odd years, had treated him as one of their own, but that didn't mean he was close to them. Not particularly. Being frequently told, even as he was a child, that they only kept him around as emergency rations would sour any relationship, after all. But he was content to keep his head down among the band of thieves, until he was old enough and trusted enough to be sent on jobs on his own.
It was never a secret that Peter didn't like being a Ravager. It had, in fact, become something of a sticking point in his training and one of the many things they mocked him for. He did the work well enough, though, and his fellows assumed he was putting on airs, deluding himself into thinking he deserved something more. Something better.
The actual secret was that Peter wanted power. He'd spent most of his life feeling like victim that at this point? He was pretty much ready to do anything.
There was a new job being passed around -- but this job was different. The best thieves among them would adamantly refuse to take the assignment, and something about the fear in their eyes made Peter curious. What the hell was wrong with this job that all these men and women, ostensibly at the top of their game, would turn ghostly white and go practically shitless at the mention of it?
Something amazing, probably. Dangerous. So Peter volunteered.
The job was securing an ancient relic, and when Peter held it, he understood what the problem was. It was dripping with magic, soaking with it, enough so that the entire chamber that housed it stank of something uniquely, darkly arcane. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, like in the moments before a thunderstorm, could taste something metallic in his mouth, could feel the power of it pulsing up his arm and course through his body. It was-- it was intoxicating.
He didn't make the rendezvous that night, or the back-up rendezvous the night after that. In fact, he dodged all the Ravagers sent after him in the following days.
The ritual to utilize the relic, as it turns out, was nothing more than channeling a desire in the dead of night -- something Peter finds out purely by accident after setting up camp in the forest. There was a flash of light, he remembers, and the relic had seared the palm of his hand before he was able to drop it with a hissed curse; there's also an excellent chance, he thinks, that he may have blacked out, judging by the fact that he's in a heap on the forest floor, and his head is throbbing in time with the beating of his heart.
It's not until he forces himself up into a sitting position that he sees-- someone. Someone where a "someone" definitely hadn't been before, which is reason enough for Peter to pull out a blade from his boot and scramble into a crouched, defensive position. ]
AU magic/demon time muhfuggassssss
Unfortunately for them, Peter had never been good at following instructions.
They had become something like his family over the past twenty some-odd years, had treated him as one of their own, but that didn't mean he was close to them. Not particularly. Being frequently told, even as he was a child, that they only kept him around as emergency rations would sour any relationship, after all. But he was content to keep his head down among the band of thieves, until he was old enough and trusted enough to be sent on jobs on his own.
It was never a secret that Peter didn't like being a Ravager. It had, in fact, become something of a sticking point in his training and one of the many things they mocked him for. He did the work well enough, though, and his fellows assumed he was putting on airs, deluding himself into thinking he deserved something more. Something better.
The actual secret was that Peter wanted power. He'd spent most of his life feeling like victim that at this point? He was pretty much ready to do anything.
There was a new job being passed around -- but this job was different. The best thieves among them would adamantly refuse to take the assignment, and something about the fear in their eyes made Peter curious. What the hell was wrong with this job that all these men and women, ostensibly at the top of their game, would turn ghostly white and go practically shitless at the mention of it?
Something amazing, probably. Dangerous. So Peter volunteered.
The job was securing an ancient relic, and when Peter held it, he understood what the problem was. It was dripping with magic, soaking with it, enough so that the entire chamber that housed it stank of something uniquely, darkly arcane. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, like in the moments before a thunderstorm, could taste something metallic in his mouth, could feel the power of it pulsing up his arm and course through his body. It was-- it was intoxicating.
He didn't make the rendezvous that night, or the back-up rendezvous the night after that. In fact, he dodged all the Ravagers sent after him in the following days.
The ritual to utilize the relic, as it turns out, was nothing more than channeling a desire in the dead of night -- something Peter finds out purely by accident after setting up camp in the forest. There was a flash of light, he remembers, and the relic had seared the palm of his hand before he was able to drop it with a hissed curse; there's also an excellent chance, he thinks, that he may have blacked out, judging by the fact that he's in a heap on the forest floor, and his head is throbbing in time with the beating of his heart.
It's not until he forces himself up into a sitting position that he sees-- someone. Someone where a "someone" definitely hadn't been before, which is reason enough for Peter to pull out a blade from his boot and scramble into a crouched, defensive position. ]
Who the hell are you?