Virgil
25-07-2006, 02:09 AM
The red sun rose slowly, driving back the night’s chill in its steady and foreboding ascent. Thin gray shadows stretched far across the barren land like starved ghosts. Giant crags of bleached boulders rose from the earth, dry and cracked in web-like patterns that spanned the endless wasteland. Far below the cloudless sky, a figure stirred awake.
Between two twisted spires of stone, a man lay flat on his back. Whip-like cords bound his wrists and ankles, stretched out from his prone position and wrapped tightly around the bases of the spires. Consciousness returned, and the man let out a piteous, muffled groan. A blood-stained piece of cloth filled his mouth, and another length of fabric holding it tightly in place. He squeezed shut his sleep starved eyes, suppressing as best he could a very strong impulse to vomit. Trying to roll over, he felt the cords around him flex slightly, then snapped back into position. Unable to move even a few inches, he despairingly stared ahead, his mind racing. His fingers grappled feebly over the parched soil, praying some sort of fragment of stone or shale, or anything that could be of any use to him. When the sun hit its zenith, there would be no hope for him. He tried very hard not to think about what he would have to do even if he managed to free himself. Already the blood that pumped hotly through his veins felt very much like acid; his muscles throbbed and ached. A small voice in his mind muttered that a lone trek across the barrens was death, even if he knew where he was going. He had to get free. He had to find a way.
The silence of the barrens mocked him, a slow, lazy hum of the lightest breeze. As he struggled, he could feel the earth around him grow warmer. He breathed in hot, fitful, bursts out of his nose, desperately doing his best not to panic. His throat and eyes began to feel tight and dry; his entire body seemed to scream in terror and agony.
Then he thought he heard a click. He tensed, his bloodshot eyes scanning the desolate horizon. To his side, from under the shade of a boulder, a small, head-sized creature scuttled out from the darkness. It had six thin legs, covered in a burnt orange carapace. Moving in a strange, lopsided gait, the creature tentatively approached him. The man tried very hard not to breathe: from under the hard, protective outer shell, he saw small, glistening teeth.
Click.
Suddenly, the creature dashed forward. The man thrashed against his bindings, but they held. In a moment, it was upon him. A sharp pain lanced through him as it bit his neck, its thin fangs sinking quickly into his flesh. He tried to shake, to move, to get it off, but the ropes were bound too tightly, and he could only squirm as he felt its little legs dancing on his face and shoulders. The pain was too much, his binds too tight, his consciousness slipping away, and for a fleeting moment, he thought about death, when the pressure disappeared. He heard the clicking come to a climax, before ending with a sound like a large, wet nutshell being cracked. Hot air burned through his nostrils as his lungs heaved in and out. He thought he heard a rustling close by, when a shape leaned over him, silhouetted against the mid-morning sun.
The bound man stared up, knowing something had happened, but was unable to make sense of it. The shape leaned over him without a word, and shifted into the light.
It was a girl. But her hair was different, fine feathers growing from her scalp. Her skin was a dark yellow, her arms sprouting thick feathery wings of forest green, mottled with rusty flecks of red. Her full lips were a shade of purple, and her slightly slanted eyes flicked over his body.
“I know you have done something wrong.” When she spoke, her voice was soft, trembling. “I have seen your people leave their own out here to die to the heat or the scrabs. But only those who they say have deserved it.” Here she paused, a slight grin curling her lips, and surveyed him once more. “What did you do?”
He felt something hard slide neatly between the wrap and his cheek, and sever his gag in one sharp tug. Coughing raggedly, he spit a bit a blood onto the hot dirt.
“What did you do?” she repeated.
The man looked at her helplessly for a moment, and then opened his mouth as wide as he could. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she understood.
“I can help you, but you must help me.” She said no more. There was no need. She was his only hope.
***********************
This has been part one in a series of I'm not sure yet. Comments of course are appreciated, criticisms as well. Thanks.
Between two twisted spires of stone, a man lay flat on his back. Whip-like cords bound his wrists and ankles, stretched out from his prone position and wrapped tightly around the bases of the spires. Consciousness returned, and the man let out a piteous, muffled groan. A blood-stained piece of cloth filled his mouth, and another length of fabric holding it tightly in place. He squeezed shut his sleep starved eyes, suppressing as best he could a very strong impulse to vomit. Trying to roll over, he felt the cords around him flex slightly, then snapped back into position. Unable to move even a few inches, he despairingly stared ahead, his mind racing. His fingers grappled feebly over the parched soil, praying some sort of fragment of stone or shale, or anything that could be of any use to him. When the sun hit its zenith, there would be no hope for him. He tried very hard not to think about what he would have to do even if he managed to free himself. Already the blood that pumped hotly through his veins felt very much like acid; his muscles throbbed and ached. A small voice in his mind muttered that a lone trek across the barrens was death, even if he knew where he was going. He had to get free. He had to find a way.
The silence of the barrens mocked him, a slow, lazy hum of the lightest breeze. As he struggled, he could feel the earth around him grow warmer. He breathed in hot, fitful, bursts out of his nose, desperately doing his best not to panic. His throat and eyes began to feel tight and dry; his entire body seemed to scream in terror and agony.
Then he thought he heard a click. He tensed, his bloodshot eyes scanning the desolate horizon. To his side, from under the shade of a boulder, a small, head-sized creature scuttled out from the darkness. It had six thin legs, covered in a burnt orange carapace. Moving in a strange, lopsided gait, the creature tentatively approached him. The man tried very hard not to breathe: from under the hard, protective outer shell, he saw small, glistening teeth.
Click.
Suddenly, the creature dashed forward. The man thrashed against his bindings, but they held. In a moment, it was upon him. A sharp pain lanced through him as it bit his neck, its thin fangs sinking quickly into his flesh. He tried to shake, to move, to get it off, but the ropes were bound too tightly, and he could only squirm as he felt its little legs dancing on his face and shoulders. The pain was too much, his binds too tight, his consciousness slipping away, and for a fleeting moment, he thought about death, when the pressure disappeared. He heard the clicking come to a climax, before ending with a sound like a large, wet nutshell being cracked. Hot air burned through his nostrils as his lungs heaved in and out. He thought he heard a rustling close by, when a shape leaned over him, silhouetted against the mid-morning sun.
The bound man stared up, knowing something had happened, but was unable to make sense of it. The shape leaned over him without a word, and shifted into the light.
It was a girl. But her hair was different, fine feathers growing from her scalp. Her skin was a dark yellow, her arms sprouting thick feathery wings of forest green, mottled with rusty flecks of red. Her full lips were a shade of purple, and her slightly slanted eyes flicked over his body.
“I know you have done something wrong.” When she spoke, her voice was soft, trembling. “I have seen your people leave their own out here to die to the heat or the scrabs. But only those who they say have deserved it.” Here she paused, a slight grin curling her lips, and surveyed him once more. “What did you do?”
He felt something hard slide neatly between the wrap and his cheek, and sever his gag in one sharp tug. Coughing raggedly, he spit a bit a blood onto the hot dirt.
“What did you do?” she repeated.
The man looked at her helplessly for a moment, and then opened his mouth as wide as he could. Her eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she understood.
“I can help you, but you must help me.” She said no more. There was no need. She was his only hope.
***********************
This has been part one in a series of I'm not sure yet. Comments of course are appreciated, criticisms as well. Thanks.