Squib Ep.12 - Important Distinctions

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Herule didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

The orc camp was in a frenzy. The slaves had been ejected from the mine and were now mulling around on the surface. It was a welcome change for some, but Herule could only see the darker side.

It was unnatural. Slaves were meant to be slaving. Masters were meant to be mastering. That was the order of things in this place, like it or not. Now their orc overlords had almost entirely forgotten about them in favor of exploring the dark find in the recent dig.

“Rotten orcs, no honor even in their brutality.” Herule’s thoughts seethed past his serpentine tongue without any thought for Gizelle’s hearing.

Gizelle had been content lounging in the confines of Lur’s war-tent given the absence of anything else to do. The huge Orc-Chief had taken to keeping her close when he wasnt off imposing his will, which meant Herule had become something of a guard to the chiefs quarters. Lur’s dissonants were even less inclined to toy with Gizelle when it meant approaching his tent, which meant Herule was forced to find some other means by which to hold value. Fortunately his combative strength could be put to use regardless of where he was positioned.

“Entertaining those sorts of thoughts will only get you killed.” Gizelle said from her spot upon the furs. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling of the tent, formerly lost in whatever mental framework that kept her free of their situation. She lifted her head to look at Herule standing by the tent flap.

“What is it you’re looking at?”

Herule released the fabric and let it flop to a narrow opening. “Nothing,” He turned, dismissively.

Gizelle thought for a moment and sat up, then thought some more before moving onto her feet and over to the entryway. She pulled back the flap just enough to see outside.

The tent was positioned on a raised mound of rock that overlooked most of the surrounding quarry. It gave Lur the perfect vantage point, which both Herule and Gizelle now shared.

Down past the rocky outcrop, the camp split into three distinct points of interest.

The center of the camp made up the shacks and shelters of the slaves which were positioned nearest to the mines in which they had been digging.

Since work was currently restricted that meant most of the slaves were in view. Without the distraction of their work, or the slave masters acute control, they were caught between entertaining continual thoughts of escape and whatever good sense kept them alive by not doing that.

Many had been tied down, particularly the strongest who posed the greatest risk, restricted in their freedoms by being bound by the hands and tethered to posts. There they were made examples of, to further limit their energy, and make anyone else think twice.

Surrounding the slaves were the shacks and hovels of the orcs. By all comparisons their living arrangements weren't any better than that of the slaves. There were no bindings to speak of, and any barbarism was met with an equal show of force, either from the assailed member, or any of one of the more senior orcs set to keep everyone in line.

What benefits they did have was in the privilege of looking down on those forced into the quarry, and cycling through common duties which included constant scouting and running raiding parties.

Although Herule didn't share in the orcs customs for war, he did envy their warriors in their excursions out of the camp. While he would never join them, he longed to return to his tribe, maybe even so he could join in a force to oppose them.

Yet the Orcs seemed to have little interest in the realm of the Lizardfolk, with the exception of capturing the odd slave. Since Herule seemed to be the only one, he’d assumed his kind were more trouble than they were worth, and sooner died fighting than succumbed to the greenskins mercy.

Beyond the orc dwellings were the gates and towers that blocked passage in and out of the area. High cliffs of crumbling rock formed a natural land barrier, with orc watchmen in crude wooden defenses plugging up the holes. There were three Herule was aware of and none was any weaker or less guarded than the next.

Climbing the cliffs was a dangerous affair even for the most experienced climber, and even with equipment would more than likely give someone away due to the brittle nature of the sediment.

Herule had seen attempts try and fail on more than one occasion, to which the punishment had been swift and absolute. He favored his chances running out one of the gates more than over the walls, and that was with chains to slow him down.

Prospects were bleak, and each ring of the hell in which Herule found himself looked no more inspiring than the last. Being bound to the Chieftains tent was somehow the best lot he could hope for.

Gizelle inspected the very scene in which Herule had been contemplating before returning her gaze to the Lizardmans eyes. He didn't like to admit it, but she had grown a good sense for both his thinking and temperament over the short time in which he’d known her. Something he’d ascertained was bound to the nature of her being. It was a gift, perhaps the one that had kept them both alive, and elevated them to their current status before Lur. She wielded it like a weapon, which seemed to Herule, the worst whenever leveled at him.

“Come, you are weary.” She placed a gentle hand on Herule’s thick arm and guided him to turn from the camp and into the room. He considered resisting, but found himself flowing along with her, leaving his troubles at the door.

“This word ‘weary’ is foreign to my people,” Herule fibbed stoically. He had heard Gizelle use it a lot of late, and he understood her meaning, but refused to accept any application to his character. His pride was at risk.

“Well when I next see your people I will be sure to ask someone for a lesson. Someone who wields your tongue with greater deft than you,” She led Herule to the center of the room, lifting her hands to the heights of his shoulders and guiding him toward the ground. “Sit.” She urged him.

Herule drew breath and consented, shifting to a decisively kneeling position on an old rug that clearly belonged to some foreign culture. He huffed a short lungful of breath, slightly irritated at the motions he was being lead through, but following willingly all the same.

He spent the moment looking at his hands, then the shackles that bound his wrists. He didn't seem to be able to see past them anymore. While he might have been thinking about home or pondering the stars that filled the sky, he instead felt confined in his mind to the length of chain that shackled his two wrists. That, and whatever dread had been uncovered in the earth below the camp. It flowed with its own energy, infesting both the waking and sleeping minds of everyone. Deep down, Herule knew the two were inconceivably linked.

“Stay,” Gizelle ordered before fetching a large jug of water. She poured two bowles, one of which she handed to Herule to drink, and the other she placed on the floor at her feet. She found a cloth, soaked it in the bowel, and after squeezing out a long torrent of water began to bathe her Lizard companion starting with his head and neck.

Herule was not accustomed to the treatment.

The process went on, Gizelle working slow and systematically over the Lizardmans scales. While he was no stranger to filth and grime, the abundance of water his swamp provided meant rinsing was as everyday as walking. Here in the quarry, dust, silt, and ash were all anyone could know. As such, Herule’s scales resembled a packed road more than a creatures natural hide. The experience was.. reinvigorating.

“You have a gift,” Herule said after some time. “Among your people you must be sshasahari.”

“Sshasarari? I am not familiar with the word.” Gizelle appeared ponderous but continued with her task.

“Ssharasari,” Herule considered a definition, his mind feeling more clear than when they’d started. “You are gifted, I thought just in sspeech, but also now with your hands. You invoke the sspirit. You must hold a prized place among your people.”

Gizelle laughed, her brow lifting, cynical and amused. “Among my people I am a disgraced courtier at best, a seductress at worst, and on my best day- little more than a hostess, if I’m lucky.”

Much of the nuance was lost on Herule, particularly the sudden cause for humor. The terms Gizelle spoke of had no common use within his society leaving him confused as to her intended meaning. He thought for a moment before deciding on a reply, “Then today you’re on your best day.”

The moment was interrupted. The sound of a protruding knife splitting the rear of the tent caught both their ears. Herule looked up to see two new tent flaps draw open.

He was on his feet in a flash, pushing Gizelle behind him while scanning the room for the nearest weapon.

In stepped a cloaked creature with reflective orb-like eyes, pointed ears sticking through its hood, and a black furry tail flicking behind it. Upon seeing Herule it issued a threatening growl and brandished it’s knife.

Three more figures pushed in behind it, seemingly more concerned about what might be outside than within.

Herule stepped forward and gave a cautionary hiss, flexing his arms and making himself look as big as he could. The intruders seemed taken back.

“Holy Khant, what the hell is a Lizardman doin’ here?” The biggest of the intruders bellowed. He wore heavy armor and carried a big weapon in both hands. Herule took him for a warrior, and while he didnt understand the mans tongue, he certainly sounded as rowdy as he was big.

“It would appear he’s some form of captive.” The other human stated, pointing at Herules chains.

Herule took a step forward, eyeing the man for an instant but disregarding him as less of a threat. He had none of the bluster of the first and instead had a manner of speech that closer resembled the more finer aspects of Gizelle when speaking her human tongue.

“What should we do?” The third, a female, spoke with a level of desperation that made her appear something of a wild creature to Herule. He was sure to keep his eye on her, in case she acted rashly then never acted again.

“Enter here at your peril!” Herule hissed his threat and stood his ground poised for assault.

A tender hand found his shoulder. Gizelle appeared at his side. “State your business!” She demanded.

“My lady,” the stuffier of the four stepped forward, crossing his arm over his chest and bowing his head, “We’re here for rescue.”

(Continue to Ep.13)

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