Crimson

Chapter Ten

Disturbed by the images, the other creature investigated his face. Closer and closer it moved towards him, seeing more detail in the weak smooth scales covering it. Visualizing the lack of scales, the smooth, yet darker, encasing stretched over its body. Confused, he groaned as he shifted. Moving onto his mended wound, his orbs fluttered quickly as the pain distressed him. His light response flickered weakly around his wound sites, in an apparent need to repair itself, it circulated around.

The pit he lay in unceremoniously, tightened around his thorax. The Patchers, refusing to open it to make it more comfortable to the wounded. Many cycles of repairing the Legionnaires hardened them. Easily, they ignored the cacophony of groans and wails of pain lingering in the Patch Den. Annoyed at the increase in injured, the hardened training produced, they provided the minimal amount of care needed to stretch the healing process, a silent message to the Sans.

Two thin Erons clacked around on the scaled pathways weaving through the Patch Den. Connecting the pathway of supplies and holes of each wounded erons, blackened by the continual passing, soft specks of dirt puffed up after each movement. The smell of rot lingering in the atmosphere, heavy to the scent holes of his people; its pungent aroma immersed the area in its essence.

Highly aware of the odor, the Patchers tied coverings over their scent holes to prevent the intake of the nauseating fragrance. Lazily, they moved about, changing coverings, ensuring no Eron passed into the permanent death state; they feebly cared for the weak. One of the thin Patchers orbed the broken eron. Pausing slightly, he spoke in a deep muffled tone.

"Eh, nineteen has finally stirred." Stopping and watching briefly, he moved to discuss the need for a Legionnaire who lost one of his talons in training.

Pained, his onyx orbs fired open as he witnessed the apparent shock etched on the face of the creature in front of him. It moved backward, repelled while stumbling slightly. His death state abruptly ended while he examined the lingering image of the creature, which studied him, morphing into a bruised and broken colleague watching him closely in the nearby pit. This creature large and intimidating sat upward in his pit with his back resting on the Patch Den. Slowly his visage cleared to his burdened orbs, the bright olive tone of his scales with peppered layers of darkness illuminated to his stirring.

The unmistakable discolored scale on his right side of his face along with his broad frame spilled out of the pit appeared as an Eron in a child's death state hole. Pligal chuckled softly before immediately regretted it. The piercing pain in his side caused his thorax to tighten slightly, his orbs shuttered as he rode the sensation to its completion. Gasping as it vanished; he reopened his orbs blinking away the wetness building around the edges.

Sitting half-lifted, Dorn's head stayed turned towards Pligal, yet resting upon the edges of the Patch Den. Weakly, he breathed, his thorax slightly shifting up and downward, a soft shutter flowing through him. Trembling softly, his thorax contracted while his head moved forward towards his abdomen. Shortly after, his head dropped backward towards the Den surface.

A skin, which Pligal could not identify, lay strewn upon his enormous frame. Soiled, it meagerly covered the oversized Eron. Patches of life fluid, once permeating and flowing through the past victims of injury adorned the thin fabric, stained, each blotch a reminder of the risk inherent to the training.

Alarmed by the state of his fellow Legionnaire, Pligal ignored the stitch at his side. His Orbs grew wide as he surveyed the evidence of injury upon his comrade. Noticing the shock upon his face, Dorn spoke softly, his voice deeply penetrating the massive groans and wails throughout the large Patch Hall.

"Do I look so feeble? Your orbs betray your concern." Deeply, he breathed inward as he forced the last bit out.

"What happened to you? Pligal asked gripping his side with his talon, the side of his abdomen where a fire erupted in response to his movements. Sitting upward to meet the orb level of Dorn, Pligal awaited his comrade's response.