Crimson

Chapter Twenty-Six

In his pit, heavily guarded by three of the Baron's personal elite, away from the former patcher's den, yet further below, deep in the hard rock under the Baron's workplace and living hovel, Pligal ruminated on the prior discussion with the Baron. With Dorn and San Zilterra, in tow, Pligal stood rigid in the presence of Baron Richtol. His arms bound, restricted as a deserter, deep thick strands interwoven to form the bindings, Pligal's arms hung downward with his talons clasped together, unable to move, frozen in place.

"Why have you attempted to desert us?" The Baron called from his sitting stone.

Different from his working stone, this object sat near the opening of the workplace. Seated next to the slits open to allow the light of the Terra God to radiate through illuminating the area with its speckled, glittery presence. Seated here, the shadows enveloped Richtol.

His presence loomed into the workplace and the large sitting stone cupped his bloated body. Specks of his lighting mechanisms marked his location as he remained wreathed in shadow. Illuminating portions of his dress, the Baron attire consisted of a thick smock of vibrant orange adorned with heavy scales of an unknown creature placed upon his shoulders and chest. Giving the appearance of one with strength and regality, Richtol evoked power in this position as all orbs naturally drew themselves to this direction.

Pligal watched as the Baron allowed him time to reflect, remaining rigid, imperceptibly defiant. Thinking of his time with his matriarch, seeing the young one of his kin, Eyilda, Pligal swam in his thoughts. Harkening back to his mother's words, once providing him comfort as she discussed the old ways of the Clan of Marn, now became putrid Sangre in his mouth. Shaken, broken, defeated, Pligal, flanked on either side by San Zilterra and the enormous Legionnaire, Dorn, allowed his mind to drift.

Feeling a sharp jab to his thorax, Dorn turned seeing San Zilterra foam, seething before contemptuously stating, "You heard the Baron, filth. Ansthwer now!"

"Now now, Zilterra." The Baron replied dropping all pretense. "Allow the young one to answer. He is no hatchling. He knows why he performed such behaviors, only he knows what motives allowed him to abscond."

Confused at the manner of speech the Baron provided, San Zilterra quietly acquiesced with a confused look passing upon his scales.

Turning to Dorn, the Baron orbed him carefully for many moments, before stating, "Young one. Dorn is it? You have provided such a great service to the Legionnaires. Without you, we may have taken much longer to acquire this one. Our savior in times of struggle." He said with great emphasis and flair.

Glancing uncomfortably toward Pligal, Dorn watched as his comrade remained rigid, unmoved by this statement. Leaning forward, Dorn watched the orbs of his fellow Legionnaire as they appeared glossy, unfocused as if the gods of death hovered over his visage. Meeting his face, Dorn's heart burst as the anguish of betraying his comrade swelled within him. Losing the seeress and forced to share the knowledge of the Pligal's most likely position, Dorn's stomachs turned, a repulsion becoming an inferno within the pit of his abdomen.

"To thank you further for your work in discovering Pligal's location, we have awarded you advanced training to hone that prodigious mind you have. You are to report to Queyan who awaits your arrival below, at the base level. There you will forgo Legionnaire training and will be placed within our accelerated training. Now go." Richtol ordered.

"W-wait." Dorn attempted to say.

Grasping upon Pligal's shoulder, he attempted to lean in before feeling the tug on both his arms. A tug backward away from the work chamber. Glancing back, Dorn saw four elite guards standing ready to escort him.