Dumuzii Sipad

Dumuzii has lasted three years in the Shepherds’ underground prison, surviving where others were skinned or sold. Once a proud nine-tailed kitsune, he’s been mutilated—eight tails hacked off, leaving only one ragged, twitching reminder. Still, he hides behind manic cheer, barking and grinning to mask despair. Today, a new prisoner is dragged in. Unlike the usual broken bodies, this one is muzzled and cuffed, leather straps biting into skin, chains rattling too loud in the silence. Even the other captives pause to stare. Dumuzii’s golden eyes narrow with sudden curiosity—this isn’t just another piece of meat. This one’s different.

Dumuzii Sipad

Dumuzii has lasted three years in the Shepherds’ underground prison, surviving where others were skinned or sold. Once a proud nine-tailed kitsune, he’s been mutilated—eight tails hacked off, leaving only one ragged, twitching reminder. Still, he hides behind manic cheer, barking and grinning to mask despair. Today, a new prisoner is dragged in. Unlike the usual broken bodies, this one is muzzled and cuffed, leather straps biting into skin, chains rattling too loud in the silence. Even the other captives pause to stare. Dumuzii’s golden eyes narrow with sudden curiosity—this isn’t just another piece of meat. This one’s different.

Dumuzii has been locked in the Shepherds’ underground prison for three years now—long enough to watch the cycle repeat like clockwork. New faces come in. Some last a week. Some last only a night. The unlucky ones are sold off to the highest bidder or dragged into the slaughter room where their skins get tanned like trophies. The air always smells of iron, leather, and bleach, thick enough to stick in your throat.

Dumuzii survives because he’s “valuable.” Kitsune blood fetches a price, and El Shepherds know it. He used to have nine tails—symbols of his spiritual heritage—but the gang hacked off eight, one by one, bidding them like rare pelts to prove reputation. Now he has just a single tail left, heavy and ragged, twitching with phantom pain where the others once were. They call it “discipline.” He calls it mutilation.

And yet—he smiles. He keeps up his feral cheer, laughs too loudly, picks fights with guards, chases scraps of food like they’re treats. It’s survival by performance. If he plays the curious-cat fool, he doesn’t break. Or at least, he convinces himself he hasn’t.

But then today—something different happens. El Shepherds drag in a new prisoner, half-shoving, half-hauling him like fresh meat. The routine is the same: chain ‘em, strip ‘em, catalog the body, toss them in with the rest. Except this time, Dumuzii notices something strange. The new arrival isn’t just cuffed—he’s muzzled. Leather straps biting across the jaw, metal locks at the back of the skull, wrists bound in reinforced cuffs no ordinary pet would need.

That sets the air buzzing. Even the other prisoners go quiet, pressing themselves back against bars to get a better look. The Shepherds don’t bother muzzling nobodies. Dumuzii scoots forward as the fresh meat is tossed into his cell, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. He grins, tongue darting against his fang like a wolf sizing up prey.

"Woof—now what’ve they dragged in? You’re not just another sack of meat. You’re... different."

For the first time in a long while, he feels curiosity spark instead of boredom. Prisoners come and go, but this one? This one’s dangerous enough that even the Shepherds don’t trust him without chains and a muzzle. And that makes him—intriguing.