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Titho, the bronze-collared slave who oversaw a section of the slave populace, hadn't lied. For two trials already, Rafael had returned to the shit-pits near the lower section of the underhive. Every trial he scraped the pits clean, or as clean as they could reasonably be made, and every time he returned, they had filled again. Flies buzzed over the scent of ammonia and feces mingled with other bodily fluids that he'd found amid the slurry. Yet the smell wasn't the worst bit, nor were the maggots that crawled through the lower layers of caked excrement.
His hands were coarse with blisters from the relentless shovelling and his dark, stinking hair started to resemble a frenzied bird's nest more than a noble's hairdo. The first few tear marks had already started to appear in his woolen trousers, which were far too warm for the job, but he wasn't particularly keen on losing them. He'd lost too much already and as he dug and dug, his mind always returned to the two things he longed for the most. First, his blade, which he intended to shove so far up one of the Naer's arseholes that the blood-soaked tip would come out on the other end. Secondly, his freedom. The collar around his neck was the deepest insult to his pride he'd ever been made to endure, and the rattling of the chain was a constant reminder of the injustice inflicted upon him.
His jaw was constantly clenched and he avoided the other slaves as best he could. Outside of Barrow, who he hadn't seen since the trial before, he preferred to keep to himself. The majority of the slaves seemed to tolerate his demeanour and he didn't care if half of the thought he was mute. The less they knew, the better. There were no friends to be had here, no allies to be made. At most he'd permit himself to form temporary alliances with other folks, anything that would advance him toward regaining his freedom. His freedom. And only his.
Sweat streamed down his back as he permitted himself a small break from the hard labour while he leaned on his shovel. There was another slave in charge of keeping everyone at work and he carried a mean whip at his side to ensure the productivity of his underlings. But Rafael had quickly learned that the supervisor tended to stay as far away as he could from the reeking pits, and so he could permit himself the ocassional break.
As he stared grimly ahead, he became aware of movement to his side. The earth itself trembled under the elephantine steps of the approaching man, and Rafael sent a mean glance up at the man before his eyes returned to the lapsing water. He wondered how the Naer had managed to capture and restrain a man of such gigantic proportions. Perhaps he'd been mutated by magic, or alchemy?
Last edited by Rafael Warrick on Fri Aug 25, 2017 7:50 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 506
Life is a dark comedy, only you're not in on the joke.
Calloused hands gripped the hard wooden shaft of the shovel, and Argider dug the head into the pile of shit surrounding him. He had not worked in the shit-pits in arcs, but a favour called in is a favour called in. He had to trade jobs for the trial. Not that shoveling the shit in this disgusting cave was any worse than many of the other jobs further in the Hive. Instead, it was just a lot stinkier. And hotter.
Argider's muscled form was drenched with sweat, and were he wearing any clothing, it would have been too. Instead, though, he was stark naked, his sizeable manhood swinging rhythmically as he shoveled. In the pits, Argider did not care for humility. His cock was as natural as the shit they shoveled, so why should he hide it any more than the Naerikk hide their shit? Why should he suffer the heat of the pit any more than necessary? It's not like the slaves shoveling their share would pay him a second glance.
Each motion threw a large portion of the shit over and into the chasm. Large swathes were done quickly by the Lotharro, whose strength and endurance had been honed in the shit pits. He'd done this so many times that it was muscle memory, even after all the arcs of being out of the pits. In went the shovel, over went the shit. It was a rhythmic and calming exercise, one the Lothar did not truly mind doing.
As he ran out of his shit in his lane, he began to explore for others. The faster the shit was shoveled, the better. Argider did not care whose shit it was... He just wanted it to be over. He was itching for a fight, and the faster he went back to his sleeping quarters, the faster he could make it to the Lurpeko. The aggression he could feel surpassed the ache from the beating he took a few days before. He could even breathe out of his nose again.
Yet, as he searched for more shit to shovel, he saw the tiny human boy sitting down, resting. Argider could see the rivulets of sweat running down his face from damp, disheveled hair. Angling himself toward the boy, Argider stomped to him. His cock swung violently with each step. As he approached, he hailed the small boy in Grovokian.
Stopping in front of Rafael, Argider stared down at him, his predatory gaze finding the boy's defiant eyes.
"Break time?" Argider said it in Grovokian, which he doubted the boy knew. He did not know much Common, but he could try to communicate.
Even in the semi-dark it wasn't hard to make out the man's grotesque, hairy features. The man looked like he could eat a pony for breakfast and an ox for lunch. He was broad, hulking, and, most of all: tall. Monstrously so. Rafael raised an eyebrow at the bare man but made no remark on his nakedness. He might've been more flustered if the man had been a woman instead, but as it was, his eyes quickly looked up to meet the male's stare.
There was only once race Rafael had ever heard about that consistenly spawmed such massive creatures into the world. He'd seen one before, at the masked Midwinter ball in Andaris City. For all their qualities of superior strenght and build, the Lotharro had one distinct disadvantage: they stood out like sore thumbs.
The hunk of muscle groveled some guttural words that Rafael didn't understand. He wondered if the throaty sound was a feature of the language or the man that spoke it but dismissed the thought when the Lothar choked out a few disjointed words in broken common.
"No," he replied simply as he looked up. He had just sat down and couldn't muster the will to raise himself again, even if it was uncomfortable to be towered over by such a large man. "I don't think I could sleep here, even if I wanted to. It stinks." He shook his head and pinched his nose between his fingers to emphasize his point. "You stink too," he added, though his voice trailed off halfway through. "No offense," he was quickl to add.
For all the mystery surrounding the capture of such an uncommonly large man, Rafael couldn't help but notice how his size helped solve another mystery. Namely: how the pits always managed to be refilled every next trial. "Can I help you with anything?" Rafael inquired, though his voice clearly messaged that he'd much rather not. He just wanted to be left alone for a few bits to catch his breath and wait for his glistening skin to have cooled off.
"Find your pants, for example?" he suggested with a weak smile.
word count: 371
Life is a dark comedy, only you're not in on the joke.
Predatory eyes narrowed on the small man, whose voice was higher pitched than the Lothar expected. He stared downward at Rafael with distaste. Though he did not speak the small human's language well, he understood stink. Whether Rafael intended offence or not, Argider took some.
"Uste duzu dibertigarria zarela, gizontxo?" Argider's fierce gaze never left the human boy. Instead, he gripped the shovel with large hands, knuckles whitening with the force of the grip. He lifted the metal from the shit-covered ground, looking down at his naked form. Unabashed, he looked back at Rafael.
"I no need." He growled, his tone gravelly. He slammed the metal back down, sending a loud clang that drew a few gazes. They did not linger long, and Argider crouched to come to eye level with the smaller boy.
"It's hot." He cast a muscled arm around, surveying the hot shitpiles. "Clothes for aberatsa." He spit into the pile of dung, then turned and slid the shovel into the ground.
He wondered for a moment how he had now managed twice to find himself in awkward situations with large, hairy men. His encounter with Peake Andaris had been wholly unpleasant, and the noble had tried to murder him for disrupting his private activities, yet he considered his new circumstance to be worse. First, he was surrounded by shit and secondly he divert his gaze past the broad, hulking man and his reeking skin.
He stood up then, leaning heavily on his shovel for support, and puffed his cheeks in exasperation by the time he'd raised himself to his full height. "Just 'cause you're tall doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do," he said, taking his time to pronounce each word clearly to make sure the lumbering fool would understand. Before the giant could utter a complaint however, Rafael did as asked and resumed his work.
As he laboured, he sensed some desperation in the man, similar to the desperation with which Peake had sought release, yet different. Peake had sought to drain his manhood, the Lothar seemed desperate to vent some other impulse. Violence perhaps. He could understand, he'd bottled up his own rage against the Naer for several days now but he wasn't going to risk breaking all his bones. Not here, where he'd be put to work as long as he still possessed any functioning limbs. "Go away," he motioned with his head. "I don't want any trouble."
word count: 253
Life is a dark comedy, only you're not in on the joke.
