Crimson

Chapter Five

Following Dorn inside, Pligal noticed two of the other six men still lay in their holes. The other four moved about the hall in a hurried attempt to prepare for the marshal of warriors. As the horn's cycle resounded, once more, scuffling erupted outside the Hall of Gloom.

Loud slaps hit the skin of the hall making the skin bow inward. Aggressive grunts, heard by the men in Pligal's hall, caused their attention to shift toward the disturbance. The two which rested in their death cycle shifted their bodies uncomfortably, one letting out an annoyed huff of air.

"Findel, you need to move quicker," Dorn said turning his back on him. "Our San will be here soon."

Findel, the one who expelled air in exasperation quickly moved outside of his hole. The San, their instructor, assigned to them until they completed the training requirements or were expelled due to failure. Their San particularly expressed animosity toward these Erons, cruelty his dialect, torment his passion.

Twelve of them started training together. In three days, the San crushed the will of the four. Some became unresponsive and catatonic while others retreated to their holes, burying their faces in sobs.

Remembering the sight of these poor individuals, their scales losing their luster. Their initial vibrant yellow scales quickly fading to gradations of gray and red, colors spelling certain death within their community. Pligal's thorax ached to see his fellow Ak-Wo in such great pain, such deep turmoil.

One cannot survive in the land nor hunt without proper color patterns. Stealth led the Erons to live and hunt in the land of Duidon. Ordering Pligal and the others to gather the sick and bring them to another location, their San expressed nothing but contempt toward these broken ones.

Together, carrying their distraught comrades deep in the rock, the entrance, located near the center of the Legion's training site, thought, before then, by Pligal and the others to be the area where the weapons were stored. Pligal's thorax heaved with rapid respiration, his talons ached as he held onto his comrade. Many steps away from the Hall of Gloom, curiosity drove him to discover where this path would lead. His steps quickening in excitement, despite his fatigue. His partner, helping him carry their comrade, the same Findel who lazily lay in his pit, slowly waking from his Death State.

"Ghh!" Findel grunted. "Slow yourself."

Quietly acquiescing, Pligal slowed as Findel already used his staff to help stabilize himself. Pligal not witnessing sloth, but extreme fatigue, allowed Findel to set the pace of their mission. Regaining his pace with Findel, Pligal attempted to observe everything around him.

Pligal and Findel, the last of the four groups, Dorn and the others just ahead of them, reached an archway marking the path down into the deep. Pligal knew of a belief that stated the dark one's dwelt underneath, however his people did not carry that belief.

The rock entrance, a mound three normal Eron bodies high. Its base stretched farther than the Hall of Gloom appearing dark inside. San stood at the entrance, waiting for the four groups to approach him.

Shifting impatiently, he said "Move it Rots! You filth of the Ak-Wo!"

His voice, crisp as a blade, caused many of the legionnaires to tremble. Although smaller than Pligal, San was intimidating in many ways. Dorn, the powerhouse of their group dared not speak ill of the creature. Aside from his harsh demeanor, his appearance was more striking.

San appeared nearly luminescent yellow, his scale lines barely observable. Furthermore, the spots on his scales resembled deep earth, hard brown in hue, they emoted his callousness, his fury. When he moved, his body formed a melody to the orbs. Gazing upon him in the rays of the Light god ushered ocular piercing tremors. These warriors in training had difficulties maintaining contact with their onyx orbs upon his visage.