They felt the warm hand upon their stone form, their eyes opening, their flesh restoring, how long had they been asleep. The being before them had kind eyes.... "are...ze...an.. orc?"
The being looked upon them and shook a heavy head. "We're not called that." / "Iz been zleeping for a long time. Wvat...are....ze called dzen?"
"Once I set camp to rest, we can talk, is that alright?" / "Of courze."
It was a long talk late into the night, and the start of a very interesting friendship -- Anon Guest
[AN: Like fuck am I going to continue the phonetically transcribed accent. Sorry not sorry, Nonny]
Of the universal Adventuring truths, one of them is, "Nobody ever makes realistic statues of people screaming in horror." Durzakh knew it well. She'd been working the Basilisk's hunting grounds for years. Adventurers had left all the victims behind, claiming that the gods would sort them out.
Most gods couldn't be bothered, so Durzakh came with the potions and spells to restore those who had been left behind. Those who were intact at any rate. The broken ones were beyond her help. She could only plant a flag nearby for the stone-shapers to mend their shattering.
If all went well, people would be walking away with all the same colour to their skin, and clothes. As it was, they were lucky to walk out.
Durzakh carefully swept the last of the dirt off of this half-buried figure. Ze had toppled at some point in the past, but didn't break. Or didn't break much that couldn't grow back. She didn't disturb the figure, gently laying the special oil on ritual spots. She just recited the words and made the prescribed motions, placing the lit tapers exactly where they needed to be.
And kept clear of the blade, just in case ze was swinging when ze'd been petrified.
A gasp, a stuttering cough. The blade fell from hir hands as ze desperately lurched to retch into the moss. Hir body was still depetrifying, so everything was at least twice as difficult as the full effect took hold. Half the elaborate hairdo was still stone in the tangle of bodies and mosses, but at least ze was alive.
Durzakh rubbed hir shoulders as hir lungs returned to proper operation. "Slow," she said in Elven.
Tears in hir eyes, still gasping for clear air, the Elf blinked in confusion. Wheezing a little, ze managed, "Art thou... Orc?" in an ancient variant of the Trader Tongue.
Durzakh twitched at the adulteration of her species' name. "That is not the right word. We are Harukh. Not Orc."
"It soundeth alike unto mine ears," said the Elf. Maybe because they were still coming back from stone.
"That will take work," said Durzakh. It was getting dark, so she summoned the lights to help them both pick their way back to less hazardous ground. She got hir to hir feet, and kept hir steady until they reached the plank path laid over the tangled, petrified bodies.
There was half a tribe of Harukh'ai at camp, and at least thirty people revived from petrification. Making it a tent of tongues, that included the Hellkin Professor Vitalis - who made abundant use and abuse of the Tongue of Nations spell.
Adventurers through history had attempted to best this area, whether or not they were warned about the Basilisk. Now those returned to life were facing the concept of returning to life some decades, centuries, or even millennia from when they set out.
Somehow, careers in museums and temples of Wothyn did not appeal to them as much as it did to Professor Vitalis.
Durzakh persisted in attempting to catch one Elf up with the times. "Harukh. Not Orc. Ha-ru-kh."
"Horkh," said the Elf.
Baby steps. Durzakh dished them up a bowl of stew each. "Let's try it a little at a time. Ha...?"
"Ha," echoed the Elf, accepting the stew with grace.
"Roo," encouraged Durzakh. She had all night if she needed it.
[Photo by Ian Noble on Unsplash]
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