Revolution Chapter I

"He's starting!"

The voice of a young grevelian called out, she stood from the circle of youth that had surrounded an older member of her race to wave at a few stragglers late to arrive for story time.

"Don't worry little one, I'll wait for the others" said the elder as a warm smile spread across his muzzle

His voice was textured and strong, not boring or monotonous like many of the elders. His stories were always the best, always exciting and adventurous, capturing the children's imagination and awe, telling tales of swashbuckling cloudrunners, or lost princess's, terrible creatures and incredible heroes, and no matter the odds or how dark the day the ending was always happy.

As the last few young ones found their seats the old grevelian scanned his audience clearing his throat and crackling his knuckles.

"Well now, what type of story would you like to hear tonight?" he asked his wide-eyed attendance

A dozen voices answered in unison "monsters, a princess, pirates" their rushed and jumbled response made the old grevelian called Jaloth smile.

"How about a story with all of the above?" he asked

The children smiled broadly and shouted, "Yes" with excitement.

"Good, now the story I'm about to share with you is true, some of you may have heard mention of it before from your parents or schooling, it is the story of Deskel and the great alliance" he paused for a moment, looking for any sign of recognition in the eyes of the grevelian cubs.

"Have any of you heard this tale?" he asked

The assembled shook their heads as a negative

"Well my, my" said Jaloth "this is the most important story of our past, and I believe you are old enough to appreciate it"

He leaned forward with a glint in his eyes "Now lets begin" he spoke softly
"Many, many years ago, before yours or my time, the world was a much different place, it was older, more dangerous, and for many of us it was a much harsher reality, your ancestors where once a horrible thing called slaves."

His voice lowered as if preparing to share a great secret, to the children it sounded like dry leaves gently brushing together.

"But everyone of us are born with a touch of destiny" his eyes moved back and forth as if speaking to each one of the cubs

"And on one late night, the gods looked amongst the wrong done to our people and they chose one child, one single child to instill a great power and an important destiny, one child to carry the fate of an entire race, one child to save his people.... this child’s name was Deskel...."

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"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"

A shout woke Deskel from his reverie of thoughts, Damnit, daydreaming again he thought as he mentally chided himself.

The bellow came from his unit controller, a hulking Silurian called Grush'tah, augmented with vision enhancement goggles to allow better vision in the dark mines and carrying a heavy energy pike. Deskel flinched as the burly creature approached him and he hurriedly began chipping away at the metal streaked stone his detail had been working on.

He felt Grush'tah’s presence behind him, and heard a low growl, and before he could turn a sharp jolt of pain spiked at the center of his back, he fell to the packed ground as an uncontrollable muscle spasm rendered his legs useless, he vaguely heard Grush'tahs rough voice coming through the pain, mumbling something about useless workers before he noticed a darkness creeping into the edges of his vision, he fought desperately for consciousness. Clenching and unclenching his fingers and tried to focus on a set of large eyes and small furry nose that had pushed its way into his face, and then everything went black.
Deskel opened his eyes slowly, his entire body ached, his head was pounding, he could hear his pulse in his ears and his mouth was dry. He was still laying on the packed ground he had fallen on, but his head had been propped up and he could slowly begin to hear the 'chink-chink' noise of digging tools striking stone as the roar in his ears subsided. The furry face that had intruded into his perception right before blacking out returned, a little wavier and fuzzier than he remembered, Deskel shook his head to clear his vision and immediately regretted it as his head began pounding even harder.

The face belonged to Melo, one of his few friends that belonged to the same work detail, but to a different race. Melo was a Muscath, a race of small twitchy rodent like people that lived a mostly solitary life and were credited to a mastery of thievery and a fascination of shiny objects.

As Deskels vision slowly focused, Melo knelt next to him and brought a sorong pod of water to his lips, he eagerly gulped the water, allowing it to refresh his dry mouth and felt it run across his tongue, relaxing the taught muscles of his throat. He attempted to speak but his voice was still scratchy and his attempted words came out jumbled and rough. Melo smiled and brought the pod of water to his lips again, he allowed her to assist him in drinking until he had regained control of his vocal chords. He sat up slowly and scanned his surroundings.

"How long was I out?" he asked Melo

She smiled again and responded "not long, but lets get you standing before that musk of a silurian comes back around, this time he got you pretty good you know"

Deskel tenderly felt the dried blood and swelling bruise on his back, remembering previous injuries

"I know".

That night, in the tiny chamber he shared with three other members of his detail, Deskel couldn't sleep, nor could he lie on his back, which didn't do anything to elevate the dark mood he was slipping into. He lay face down on his sod and grass fiber bed, meticulously reliving the encounter with his controller earlier that day, visualizing what it would be like to cause pain to his Silurian tormentors, not understanding even how this could be accomplished. He thought of his digging tool, a short thick wooden shaft with a hardened metal pick and flattened spade facing opposite ways at the end, he thought of his sharp teeth, his muscular build created by a life of hard work, he thought of his claws, dulled they may be from digging, they could be sharpened.... and they were strong enough to cut through stone.

He thought of the stories the elders had told, of armies of silurians so large they covered the ground in every direction, how like water over sand they had swept quickly over the land and in their wake, nothing remained. How his people had not been prepared for the sheer size and might of the Silurian Collective. How the last of his free brothers and sisters had taken up arms, and the first warriors and last free men and women of Deskels people had fallen. This is how his people had become slaves, forced into labor by the whim of another race.

He clenched his fist and his teeth ground together at the thought of the thousands murdered or enslaved, horrible images of deep pits in the earth filled with his people, set ablaze to light the way for the columns of Silurian warriors to push forward. How this great injustice cried out for balance. It spoke directly to the part of Deskel that knew his people deserved to live a better life, the same part of him that held anger and bitter hatred for his captors.

Deskel snapped out of his thoughts, suddenly scared at what he was feeling and what his thoughts were leading to, he was a Grev, his entire race was enslaved, he had no friends outside of the mines, and this existence was all he knew. Deskel closed his eyes tight and tried to force the rebellious thoughts out of his head, his mind slowly surrendered to sleep, and that night alone in the darkness with no one to share his thoughts or ideas with, he dreamt of freedom.

The morning claxon sounded loudly in Deskels quarters, a low siren that droned and fluctuated at a pitch that annoyed his ears. He groaned and pulled himself out of bed, careful of his injuries, not forgotten by a six-hour sleep cycle. His roommates, an older gray coated male Grevelian called Jorak, and two male Dwarrels, a short stocky rodent like people from the northlands, excellent heavy laborers, but had a habit of talking to much, and boasting more than they could truly perform, were all slowly waking as well. He felt someone's eyes on his back and turned to catch Jorak examining his wound from across the room.

"Nice one eh?" asked Deskel glibly turning slightly to refer to his back.

Jorak just lowered his eyes and slowly shook his head. Deskel watched him for a second then returned to straightening his sleeping area. He removed a small cloth satchel he kept hidden under the wooden frame of his bed, keeping his body between his meager possessions and the others in the room he reached for an object deep in the bag. He withdrew a cord necklace with a dull silver pendent that looked like it had seen better days. The pendent was of six small rings all intertwined and connected. His mother had given it to him when he was very young, he couldn't even remember what the symbol meant. But it was a gift from his mother as her first born, and the strongest in the litter, this fact was all that mattered to Deskel.

He quickly placed the object back in his bag and secured it under his bed, and took his place in line behind one of the Dwarrels as the formation bell was rung. A second later the door swung open as a behemoth Pounder ambled by, large burrowing creatures with docile temperaments, thick exposed skull plates and an ability to dig and burrow at an incredible rate, they were used to expand the mines and dig new chambers. Its Silurian masters were leading it, much like he and his rag tag band of friends were about to be led. He chuckled to himself as he made the connection between the beast and the slaves. His group fell into line behind the rest of his detail as they passed his door; Silurians paced the formations of slaves, keeping tight security on the columns and rows of tired overworked peoples.

Before their shift began they assembled in a large room with giant wooden tables and molded soil seats, they repeated the prayer of thankfulness as instructed by the Silurian priest before the quick scramble to form lines to receive breakfast. Deskel took his seat next to Melo and a male Grev nicknamed 'Squint' due to the puckered scar under his right eye that pulled it into a kind of awkward squint. Melo smiled quietly and Squint did a mock double take as a huge grin split his face. He leapt up to his feet and slapped his spoon on the table to get as many peoples attention as possible.

"All stand for the presence of the great Deskel the most injured worker here! He laughed loudly sitting back down as a spattering of applause and laughter bounced around the mess hall, "Well, let me see the battle scar!"

Deskel grinned at the obnoxiousness of his friend, and turned to display his still soar and weeping injury. Squint whistled soft and low.

"Well o'l Melo was right, this is the worst one yet, I think your buddy Grush'tah has it out for you or something".

"I've never done anything to him" replied Deskel while studying the contents of his plate, gray and green cubes covered in some sort of watery gravy, he looked up "There's no reason to single me out "

"Unless he just don't like you, the way this systems set up he could kill you and not have any bit of explaining or remorse to worry about" Squint grinned again "And trust me Des, you have got to be the most annoying creatures on the team". He chuckled as Deskel looked up from his broth and bread to glare.

Deskel looked over to Melo, and noticed her distracted and nervous gaze, "Morning Melo, everything ok?"

She set down her seemingly oversized wooden spoon, and nodded in a direction to Deskels left and said "haven't seen them before in this mess".

Deskel glanced to his side but kept his face and body towards his plate and place on the table, the two individuals Melo were referring to sat alone at a table against the far wall, they were different from any other creature Deskel had ever seen, they had a fading resemblance to a Grevelian in basic physical characteristics, but had smaller eyes, longer muzzles, longer digits tipped with sharp claws that had no doubt been clipped short upon their capture, larger ears, and shorter tails, their bodies where well defined and they had a sort of 'dangerous' look to themselves, they stood almost as high as a Silurian and looked as if they could easily handle themselves against one. These two ate silently gazing around the room, their eyes stopping on guards and exits, they looked like fighters, and Deskel couldn't help the tightening in his chest when one of the creatures cold intense eyes fell on him.

"Deglian resistance fighters" a Sciuri murmured as she walked past Deskels table "I can't believe they were captured"

Deskel broke eye contact with the Deglian to turn to the Sciuri as she was settling into a table behind him, "What do you mean?" he asked.

The Sciuri nodded her head, as if she had expected the question. "The Deglians are one of the few races still fighting the Silurians, I can't believe those two were captured alive, most of them are supposedly instructed to end their own lives as fast as possible", the Sciuri shrugged

"Must not have had it in them huh? Pssh, better off doing each other in, than slaving with rock for the rest of your life like we do". She offered an empty smile and turned around to address her tablemates. Deskel pitied the Sciuri; a race that lived in the tall trees and played most of their life away, for her this lifestyle of forced servitude must be even more of a torture.

"Hear that?" Squint whispered leaning halfway across the table into Deskel's face, smiling widely "they're fighters" his eyes glimmered and the scar under his right eye twitched as he concentrated, "wanna place a wage on how long they last before some Silurian slime finishes them off?”

But Deskel wasn't listening, his mind was racing, and he was focusing on the Deglians eating only a few tables away. All of a sudden the Deglians stopped whispering to each other and one slowly raised its head straight up to lock eyes with Deskel, then ever so slowly with its hand slightly above the table it drew the outline of interlinked rings in the air. Deskel almost gasped out loud as he recognized the traced image as the pendent he kept hidden under his bed, then as fast as the moment had occurred, it was over. The Deglian went back to its own business and neither one of them looked back up at him. Squint impatiently flicked one of his whiskers, to get his attention, "well?"

That night Deskel couldn't stop thinking about the meal time message that had been given to him by the Deglian, it was almost surreal, and Deskel wondered if it had even truly happened. He thought of the possibilities of escape, what would he do if he made it out? What of his friends? Why would the warrior show an interest in him, and how would he know of the six-ringed symbol? The only logical explanation was that the symbol his mother had innocently passed on was obviously more important that Deskel had thought.

He closed his eyes and relaxed his body as he heard the footsteps of a Silurian guard patrolling the hallway. As the footsteps faded softly away, Deskel rolled to his side, still mindful of his slowly scabbing back, he closed his eyes and searched for sleep, but the vision of a world not limited by walls and orders taunted him, his dreams were alien, and his sleep was fitful, and one floor down, three rooms over two warriors sat awake and sharpened makeshift blades in the darkness.

One of the Deglians looked up at the other, a silent nod was passed between the two as he held the edge up for inspection, a small smile stretched across his face. And as the night crept on, unknown to one another, an army of slaves stared at their earth and stone ceilings and imagined a life without chains, and that night, in the camp of the enemy, a revolution was whispering.