However, to his half-breed nose, his body radiated only
outrage and injury, violence and pain. It exuded no pride,
only the smell of potential carrion which hung about him
on savaged skin and bone.
“Wank,” a gruff voice barked.
He wrenched open one swollen eye, flakes of
crusted blood reluctant to let his lids part, able to make out
the guard – squat, thick of limb and covered in hair –
despite the darkness. He’d been long enough down here
that he couldn’t remember the last time his inner lid had
reflexively closed over his large, half-orc pupils, needing
their whole iris to see even faint glimpses at times, though
the sights were horrors.
Despite this, he had never once whimpered, never
once cried, never once begged for mercy. He had never
asked for one damn thing, because that, he knew, he could
get.
“Wank,” the voice barked again.
Wank, he thought, what a helluva name. Moleshit, in
orcish. And did he ever feel just that these days. From
Worg’s Bane to moleshit in the length of one growl of a chieftain.
“Rahsik wants to see you.”
Wank tried to open his mouth and speak,
searching his fractured faculties for some response to
reflect his disdain for this grotesque creature, but his
benumbed mind was beaten, stripped of all thought. His
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