46th of Ash, 4617
Of all the jobs a nameless was bound to be subject to, from the blistering cold in the woodland while felling trees to choking darkness of the mines and the back-breaking labor of moving Lorianium, the forge was Arkash most favorite, especially in the colder seasons.
The flames kept his ectothermic body warm and enabled him to move with greater ease and less risk of collapsing and brumating. That warmth enabled him to work harder, and for longer. Most other tasks saw him cling to the edge of an open brazier, a device that was often used for light, just so that he could keep bending his arms and legs for the rest of his shift.
Regardless, he had to work if he wanted to save the farthings they needed to escape Lorien, and though Arkash could scrape through alleys for rats to eat, Cojack needed vegetables... and those were expensive.
It didn't help that the old horse's medicine was just about depleted, too.
He needed his pay, and the Argent were less likely to skimp him if he did a good job. As he had for the last several days, Arkash worked his warn scales raw.
The dirtied, splayed claws of his feet pressed hard as he put his back into each and every thrust of the shovel's blade, and though his spine cried for rest, and his open maw vented the intense heat of the blast furnace, Arkash gave no pause.
The basalt shade of his osteoderms was no darker by cause the coal dust he breathed, and the old bandages that wrapped his arms were no dirtier than the rest of his fur clothing but should have stood to reason that it was time to rest. Their purpose was to act as a barrier between his dried, calloused hands and the handle of the shovel he used to carry the coals to the hulking furnace.
Hollows were difficult to keep up with, and though Arkash was plenty coordinated enough to step around them and continue his advance without dropping the shovel-full, he thought himself sloppy in comparison. They were machines of labor that never tired and didn't worry for the accumulation of black phlegm at the back of their throats, and never stopped. More than once, he'd seen one of his own trampled by one of the beasts. Some got up afterward, the ones that didn't were usually left there depending on if the demand for Argent steel was steep enough.
A nameless was worthless to the citizen, let alone the Knighthood. They were there for the benefit of Lorien's military, not to slow them down by dropping on the job.
Such things didn't phase him until the bodies were buried in snow and frozen solid; he'd gone weeks of walking by trampled bodies. Though he walked dangerously close to them, he knew the way that the hollows moved; he knew how to stay out of their way and when it was time to move if their directive changed on a dime. many others struggled to predict their movements, but Arkash had worked with them since his late childhood.
With his teeth bared, he hefted the shovel of coal and emptied the contents into the smog-billowing blast furnace with a shove and a grunt. As the black rocks fell, the removal of weight on his back and shoulders saw him pause for breath, just a second to try and recover some energy while the burning glow of the constrained flame dried his eyes.
Thump, thump, thump.
Arkash side-stepped as a hollow threw another shovel-load through where he'd stood. It didn't pause or slow at all; he fully believed it would have thrown the shovelful of coal through him if he hadn't moved. He took just a moment to watch it as the mechanical beast turned on the spot, and began its march to the coal pile once more. A curl of his nose saw his legs gather the will to move again, and he was off for another round.
They really never paused- those hollows. Arkash did his best to compete with them but always fell short toward the end of the day. The back of his throat was ragged, his shoulders threatened to give out from the pulling of his strained shoulders. A balled claw at the front of his muzzle caught his hacking cough while he bent forward to try and dislodge the buildup there, but found no success.
Mouth as dry as his scales, he cast a glance to the high windows, far above the stations they toiled at, then straightened his back as he hefted the shovel over his shoulder, and stepped around another Hollow as it walked through him.
Head low, his yellow eyes stayed focused on what was ahead of him. He didn't look down at the trampled human he stepped around, the rumbling gurgle of a broken breath beneath his feet, and stopped at the coal pile once more. A flex of his cut claws saw him all but throw his whole body weight into the thrust of his shoulder, and dug into the mound once again. For leverage, he pushed down on the back of the handle and pulled up with his other hand to pry the shovelful free.
His tail lifted a little to counter the forward weight and maintain the balance of his lithe, malnourished form, and he pushed forward. Stepping around the hollows and other nameless alike was almost a relief, as he found the opportunity to engage a different muscle group for just a second, a moment to steal his attention from the deafening burn in his lower back.
Dipping and weaving around his fellow nameless, the hollows, and the broken one on the floor, he found his mark at the funnel again and piled the coals atop with a twist of his arms.
Finally, his shovel met the iron floor, and his arms pulled close while he leaned into the handle. He had to catch his breath, but the dust in the air made his throat dry.
With a squint, he hazarded an attempt to close his mouth and drew a breath through his nose.
Coal, piss, ash and sweat. All those smells flooded his powerful nose at once and his scale bridge curled in disgust before he sneezed the burning cocktail from his senses in a violent expulsion of blackened snot. A sickly groan escaped him as he shifted his short-sighted eyes to look about the high windows again.
Where was the overseer? Had they seen him slacking yet?
He couldn't risk it.
Again, he stepped back, pulled the shovel onto his shoulder, wove through the hollows and nameless, and arrived at the coals. As he thrust the implement into the pile, the hour's whistle blew, and Arkash's eyes widened. With his fingers, he began to count all the whistles that had blown thus far, then pulled a grin with his scaly lips. He was done. A sigh of relief saw him yank the shovel free; he had to turn it in to collect his pay.
Without urgency, he made his way across the floor and lifted the shovel back onto his shoulder. They hated it when they dragged them across the floor, and he had no desire to give the Argent a reason to dock his pay.
Several other men and women of various races lined up ahead of him at the booth, and Arkash sighed as he brought his legs to rest. Deep breaths were meant to stabilize him, and though they worked to some degree, they were often interrupted by his step forward as the queue moved along.
He briefly glanced over the rags of the Orkhai woman in front of him, then glanced a little bit ahead of her. As far as he could tell, his clothes were in better condition than theirs, but that was only because he'd gotten lucky with one of his traps. The elk hide he wore did well to retain the heat of the hearth while he toiled in the wintry wasteland.
The closer he came to claim his payment, the more his venom glands stirred, and the more anxious he found himself. A multitude of stresses weighed behind his eyes as the rathor drew near, though he did his best to suppress them. Darkened fluid ran from his lips in streaks while he considered that he might have been seen slacking at the furnace, but even more piled on his palette when he considered that he might be jumped the moment he stepped out of the factory. Not by the other workers, as none were in any sort of state to try and rob the other, but because the Nameless outside weren't tired, and oh-so ready to snatch their earnings.
As the Orkahi stepped away, Arkash slurped the gunk back into his mouth and cringed before and after he swallowed. He stepped up to the desk, eyes strained with the regular fears and anxieties that overcame him toward the end of his shift, and placed his assigned card upon the desk before he lowered his shovel and painstakingly lifted it onto the same board.
The Knight there rolled his eyes, took the shovel with one hand, and inspected the card with a pull of two fingers. "Six in the morning?" he asked with a slight rise in his voice, the closest he could get to impressing one of those soldiers. "This isn't your last card?" he asked, accusation in his tone.
"No Ser," he returned with a shake of his head. The knight began to check some hidden ledger behind the barrier while he explained "I needs a longa' shif' faw me da's medicine, Ser-" The Argent didn't wait for him to finish and placed two farthings on the counter. Arkash's eyes widened.
"No grievances, no docked pay," said the knight. "Metalworkers are needed in Westfalen. The Baron's offering free transport and double time for a week's worth of work." The knight placed a yellow card on the table, and slid it over to the rath, next to the purse. "If you're willing, show this card when you arrive for your shift tomorrow and you'll board a wagon to the station with whoever else signs up." Arkash blinked while his yellow eyes darted between the card and the coins, and he hesitantly took both. "Do you understand me? Do you speak common?" the knight returned, irate.
"Yeah!" Arkash returned, startled. "Ah, yeah, Ser. Fanks an' all tha'!" he called.
"Yeah yeah, go home," the Argent spoke with another roll of his eyes.
Arkash stepped out of line and looked at his closed fist. Briefly, his eyes traced the line of nameless behind him, most of which looked grateful for the pause; the chance to recover their energy.
Carefully, he opened his palm and inspected the coin he'd earned. The knight hadn't lied; he'd really made a farthing per eight hours. To think he could be making two whole farthings a day for an entire week - And that wasn't even working doubles. He could be making four farthings a day for that one week if he just worked straight doubles. And with seven days in a week, Arkash could come out of that trip a very wealthy lizard indeed.
But what of Cojack? What of his medicine?
The horse could look after himself for a week, couldn't he? Arkash furrowed his brow when he considered all the obstacles, then shook his head. Straw wouldn't spoil, even if Cojack hated eating it. It all came down to the horse yet again, he decided.
Of all the jobs a nameless was bound to be subject to, from the blistering cold in the woodland while felling trees to choking darkness of the mines and the back-breaking labor of moving Lorianium, the forge was Arkash most favorite, especially in the colder seasons.
The flames kept his ectothermic body warm and enabled him to move with greater ease and less risk of collapsing and brumating. That warmth enabled him to work harder, and for longer. Most other tasks saw him cling to the edge of an open brazier, a device that was often used for light, just so that he could keep bending his arms and legs for the rest of his shift.
Regardless, he had to work if he wanted to save the farthings they needed to escape Lorien, and though Arkash could scrape through alleys for rats to eat, Cojack needed vegetables... and those were expensive.
It didn't help that the old horse's medicine was just about depleted, too.
He needed his pay, and the Argent were less likely to skimp him if he did a good job. As he had for the last several days, Arkash worked his warn scales raw.
The dirtied, splayed claws of his feet pressed hard as he put his back into each and every thrust of the shovel's blade, and though his spine cried for rest, and his open maw vented the intense heat of the blast furnace, Arkash gave no pause.
The basalt shade of his osteoderms was no darker by cause the coal dust he breathed, and the old bandages that wrapped his arms were no dirtier than the rest of his fur clothing but should have stood to reason that it was time to rest. Their purpose was to act as a barrier between his dried, calloused hands and the handle of the shovel he used to carry the coals to the hulking furnace.
Hollows were difficult to keep up with, and though Arkash was plenty coordinated enough to step around them and continue his advance without dropping the shovel-full, he thought himself sloppy in comparison. They were machines of labor that never tired and didn't worry for the accumulation of black phlegm at the back of their throats, and never stopped. More than once, he'd seen one of his own trampled by one of the beasts. Some got up afterward, the ones that didn't were usually left there depending on if the demand for Argent steel was steep enough.
A nameless was worthless to the citizen, let alone the Knighthood. They were there for the benefit of Lorien's military, not to slow them down by dropping on the job.
Such things didn't phase him until the bodies were buried in snow and frozen solid; he'd gone weeks of walking by trampled bodies. Though he walked dangerously close to them, he knew the way that the hollows moved; he knew how to stay out of their way and when it was time to move if their directive changed on a dime. many others struggled to predict their movements, but Arkash had worked with them since his late childhood.
With his teeth bared, he hefted the shovel of coal and emptied the contents into the smog-billowing blast furnace with a shove and a grunt. As the black rocks fell, the removal of weight on his back and shoulders saw him pause for breath, just a second to try and recover some energy while the burning glow of the constrained flame dried his eyes.
Thump, thump, thump.
Arkash side-stepped as a hollow threw another shovel-load through where he'd stood. It didn't pause or slow at all; he fully believed it would have thrown the shovelful of coal through him if he hadn't moved. He took just a moment to watch it as the mechanical beast turned on the spot, and began its march to the coal pile once more. A curl of his nose saw his legs gather the will to move again, and he was off for another round.
They really never paused- those hollows. Arkash did his best to compete with them but always fell short toward the end of the day. The back of his throat was ragged, his shoulders threatened to give out from the pulling of his strained shoulders. A balled claw at the front of his muzzle caught his hacking cough while he bent forward to try and dislodge the buildup there, but found no success.
Mouth as dry as his scales, he cast a glance to the high windows, far above the stations they toiled at, then straightened his back as he hefted the shovel over his shoulder, and stepped around another Hollow as it walked through him.
Head low, his yellow eyes stayed focused on what was ahead of him. He didn't look down at the trampled human he stepped around, the rumbling gurgle of a broken breath beneath his feet, and stopped at the coal pile once more. A flex of his cut claws saw him all but throw his whole body weight into the thrust of his shoulder, and dug into the mound once again. For leverage, he pushed down on the back of the handle and pulled up with his other hand to pry the shovelful free.
His tail lifted a little to counter the forward weight and maintain the balance of his lithe, malnourished form, and he pushed forward. Stepping around the hollows and other nameless alike was almost a relief, as he found the opportunity to engage a different muscle group for just a second, a moment to steal his attention from the deafening burn in his lower back.
Dipping and weaving around his fellow nameless, the hollows, and the broken one on the floor, he found his mark at the funnel again and piled the coals atop with a twist of his arms.
Finally, his shovel met the iron floor, and his arms pulled close while he leaned into the handle. He had to catch his breath, but the dust in the air made his throat dry.
With a squint, he hazarded an attempt to close his mouth and drew a breath through his nose.
Coal, piss, ash and sweat. All those smells flooded his powerful nose at once and his scale bridge curled in disgust before he sneezed the burning cocktail from his senses in a violent expulsion of blackened snot. A sickly groan escaped him as he shifted his short-sighted eyes to look about the high windows again.
Where was the overseer? Had they seen him slacking yet?
He couldn't risk it.
Again, he stepped back, pulled the shovel onto his shoulder, wove through the hollows and nameless, and arrived at the coals. As he thrust the implement into the pile, the hour's whistle blew, and Arkash's eyes widened. With his fingers, he began to count all the whistles that had blown thus far, then pulled a grin with his scaly lips. He was done. A sigh of relief saw him yank the shovel free; he had to turn it in to collect his pay.
Without urgency, he made his way across the floor and lifted the shovel back onto his shoulder. They hated it when they dragged them across the floor, and he had no desire to give the Argent a reason to dock his pay.
Several other men and women of various races lined up ahead of him at the booth, and Arkash sighed as he brought his legs to rest. Deep breaths were meant to stabilize him, and though they worked to some degree, they were often interrupted by his step forward as the queue moved along.
He briefly glanced over the rags of the Orkhai woman in front of him, then glanced a little bit ahead of her. As far as he could tell, his clothes were in better condition than theirs, but that was only because he'd gotten lucky with one of his traps. The elk hide he wore did well to retain the heat of the hearth while he toiled in the wintry wasteland.
The closer he came to claim his payment, the more his venom glands stirred, and the more anxious he found himself. A multitude of stresses weighed behind his eyes as the rathor drew near, though he did his best to suppress them. Darkened fluid ran from his lips in streaks while he considered that he might have been seen slacking at the furnace, but even more piled on his palette when he considered that he might be jumped the moment he stepped out of the factory. Not by the other workers, as none were in any sort of state to try and rob the other, but because the Nameless outside weren't tired, and oh-so ready to snatch their earnings.
As the Orkahi stepped away, Arkash slurped the gunk back into his mouth and cringed before and after he swallowed. He stepped up to the desk, eyes strained with the regular fears and anxieties that overcame him toward the end of his shift, and placed his assigned card upon the desk before he lowered his shovel and painstakingly lifted it onto the same board.
The Knight there rolled his eyes, took the shovel with one hand, and inspected the card with a pull of two fingers. "Six in the morning?" he asked with a slight rise in his voice, the closest he could get to impressing one of those soldiers. "This isn't your last card?" he asked, accusation in his tone.
"No Ser," he returned with a shake of his head. The knight began to check some hidden ledger behind the barrier while he explained "I needs a longa' shif' faw me da's medicine, Ser-" The Argent didn't wait for him to finish and placed two farthings on the counter. Arkash's eyes widened.
"No grievances, no docked pay," said the knight. "Metalworkers are needed in Westfalen. The Baron's offering free transport and double time for a week's worth of work." The knight placed a yellow card on the table, and slid it over to the rath, next to the purse. "If you're willing, show this card when you arrive for your shift tomorrow and you'll board a wagon to the station with whoever else signs up." Arkash blinked while his yellow eyes darted between the card and the coins, and he hesitantly took both. "Do you understand me? Do you speak common?" the knight returned, irate.
"Yeah!" Arkash returned, startled. "Ah, yeah, Ser. Fanks an' all tha'!" he called.
"Yeah yeah, go home," the Argent spoke with another roll of his eyes.
Arkash stepped out of line and looked at his closed fist. Briefly, his eyes traced the line of nameless behind him, most of which looked grateful for the pause; the chance to recover their energy.
Carefully, he opened his palm and inspected the coin he'd earned. The knight hadn't lied; he'd really made a farthing per eight hours. To think he could be making two whole farthings a day for an entire week - And that wasn't even working doubles. He could be making four farthings a day for that one week if he just worked straight doubles. And with seven days in a week, Arkash could come out of that trip a very wealthy lizard indeed.
But what of Cojack? What of his medicine?
The horse could look after himself for a week, couldn't he? Arkash furrowed his brow when he considered all the obstacles, then shook his head. Straw wouldn't spoil, even if Cojack hated eating it. It all came down to the horse yet again, he decided.
