73 ZI'DA, ARC 714 ⋆ IN THE CELLAR
It smelled of bile and blood and every other manner of things one could excrete. He had never experienced anything like it, as evidenced by his own body’s willingness to rid itself of the meal he had eaten much earlier in the trial. It had been bad enough when the heavy doors of the cellar were thrown open, sending dust and spores of whatever else into the air around them, but as they continued down the little staircase of cracked stone and descended into the cellar below, the sickly scent of gore had quickly become overwhelming.
The contents of his weak, inexperienced stomach had been thrown up as soon as they had reached the final step. All the way down he had held it, with his clammy hand covering his mouth and his mind desperately trying to imagine the deathly scents away, but some things were impossible to ignore. If only the hot, pungent smell had been the largest of items on his list of things to try to ignore, he might have had a chance. But it was not.
A humid heaviness pressed in, down, and all around him. The earthy basement walls of dirt and crumbling stone were wet, dripping condensation in painfully slow rolls to the floor. Though covered with… unidentifiable hides, and worn-out rugs, the ground beneath them was nothing more than packed dirt, and he could have sworn that he felt the heat rising up from below. In the farthest corner of the room, one of the hide rugs had been tossed to the side, and the dirt looked freshly stirred and packed again. If he could have focused on the stale smell of basement mold and dirt… but he could not. He did not. Even if his companions would have allowed him the luxury, he would not have allowed it himself.
He was not weak. He was untrained… he was but a fledgeling, fumbling his way through the dark. He was no longer a child, but not yet a man; he wanted things unachievable now. In the future, he thought, if only he worked hard enough and pushed through the growing pains like these, he would have them. He did not wish for sympathy or pity or lenience, for how it would hinder his surely exponential growth.
His companion standing before him was a poor example of a man. Both of them were, the one before and behind, who escorted the youth from the dark Shanty street to the depths below. One of them twitched and picked at his skin, he could have watched the scabs fall and heal over again if only he looked long enough; the other was a little more subtle in his ways, with a shiftiness that rested only in his dark, dilated gaze. Proper Heaps they were, dressed in the worn-out scraps of the teenager’s own attire. It was a surprise in itself, to him, that they had not robbed him blind.
The man that had led their way down the stairs – the twitchy one called Esau – raised a shaky hand and motioned towards the center of the room. A chair sat before a single glowing bloodlight. A man sat upon the chair, face hidden, unconscious. Two others sat at his sides just the same.
“Ourrr latest arrivallls,” Esau’s tongue rolled and stuck on the syllables it liked best. His voice was not quite nasally, but it was bothersome enough on its own.
“Asssssleep, ‘s you can ssee.”
Esau’s teeth remained firmly planted together in a smile even as he laughed, and the sound was breathy and lacking mirth. “Llllllazy lazy bugs,” he laughed, and flicked his wrist in a directionless flop of his bony hand. He was tall, for a human, and his thin skin stretched over his prominent skeletal frame, gaunt and sharp. His flighty gaze found the teenager and glanced between him and the vomit he had left upon the floor at the stairs.
“Gonna… a… cleean thad’up?”
“Why would I–”
The words broke off into a cough. He pulled at the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth as he did so, but it barely touched the overpowering scents that had filled his throat. Voice muffled through the fabric of his shirt, he said, “why would I cl-clean it up when there is more of it everywhere else?”
This seemed to puzzle Esau. The human’s jaw jutted outward as he scratched at his patchy stubble, and his eyes scanned the floor. “Well tha’s ourrs, tha’s why!”
They stared at each other for a long trill. If it had been intended as a joke, it had not been made clear enough to the young biqaj. “That is ridiculous,” he restated in simpler terms, green eyes glaring hard enough to bore holes into the twitchy man’s head. “Show me what I came here for.”
The contents of his weak, inexperienced stomach had been thrown up as soon as they had reached the final step. All the way down he had held it, with his clammy hand covering his mouth and his mind desperately trying to imagine the deathly scents away, but some things were impossible to ignore. If only the hot, pungent smell had been the largest of items on his list of things to try to ignore, he might have had a chance. But it was not.
A humid heaviness pressed in, down, and all around him. The earthy basement walls of dirt and crumbling stone were wet, dripping condensation in painfully slow rolls to the floor. Though covered with… unidentifiable hides, and worn-out rugs, the ground beneath them was nothing more than packed dirt, and he could have sworn that he felt the heat rising up from below. In the farthest corner of the room, one of the hide rugs had been tossed to the side, and the dirt looked freshly stirred and packed again. If he could have focused on the stale smell of basement mold and dirt… but he could not. He did not. Even if his companions would have allowed him the luxury, he would not have allowed it himself.
He was not weak. He was untrained… he was but a fledgeling, fumbling his way through the dark. He was no longer a child, but not yet a man; he wanted things unachievable now. In the future, he thought, if only he worked hard enough and pushed through the growing pains like these, he would have them. He did not wish for sympathy or pity or lenience, for how it would hinder his surely exponential growth.
His companion standing before him was a poor example of a man. Both of them were, the one before and behind, who escorted the youth from the dark Shanty street to the depths below. One of them twitched and picked at his skin, he could have watched the scabs fall and heal over again if only he looked long enough; the other was a little more subtle in his ways, with a shiftiness that rested only in his dark, dilated gaze. Proper Heaps they were, dressed in the worn-out scraps of the teenager’s own attire. It was a surprise in itself, to him, that they had not robbed him blind.
The man that had led their way down the stairs – the twitchy one called Esau – raised a shaky hand and motioned towards the center of the room. A chair sat before a single glowing bloodlight. A man sat upon the chair, face hidden, unconscious. Two others sat at his sides just the same.
“Ourrr latest arrivallls,” Esau’s tongue rolled and stuck on the syllables it liked best. His voice was not quite nasally, but it was bothersome enough on its own.
“Asssssleep, ‘s you can ssee.”
Esau’s teeth remained firmly planted together in a smile even as he laughed, and the sound was breathy and lacking mirth. “Llllllazy lazy bugs,” he laughed, and flicked his wrist in a directionless flop of his bony hand. He was tall, for a human, and his thin skin stretched over his prominent skeletal frame, gaunt and sharp. His flighty gaze found the teenager and glanced between him and the vomit he had left upon the floor at the stairs.
“Gonna… a… cleean thad’up?”
“Why would I–”
The words broke off into a cough. He pulled at the collar of his shirt to cover his mouth as he did so, but it barely touched the overpowering scents that had filled his throat. Voice muffled through the fabric of his shirt, he said, “why would I cl-clean it up when there is more of it everywhere else?”
This seemed to puzzle Esau. The human’s jaw jutted outward as he scratched at his patchy stubble, and his eyes scanned the floor. “Well tha’s ourrs, tha’s why!”
They stared at each other for a long trill. If it had been intended as a joke, it had not been made clear enough to the young biqaj. “That is ridiculous,” he restated in simpler terms, green eyes glaring hard enough to bore holes into the twitchy man’s head. “Show me what I came here for.”
