by Zanz » Thu Sep 14, 2017 9:06 pm
OOC: WARNING - graphic imagery employed.
Camp No. 3 for Revolutionary Infidels, outside of Sarazah, Jelbék Yntmk Sísle, Sltnknstat Brmestán
Iskhaq Asur coughed, and shit thin, watery gruel down the inside of his right thigh. The warmth of it did not startle him, and his eyes remained glued downward, at the gray rocks and gravel which he trod with bare, calloused feet.
Camp No. 3, or Akimpylz'sijokrza, "Hell," as it was called by its residents, had been hard on Iskhaq Asur. The former priest of the Barmenian Apostolic Church, accustomed to meager possessions and a life of sacrifice for Akim, had none of the Spirit of Akim left in him - he merely survived in Akimpylz'sijokrza.
He shuffled forward as the queue of haggard, starving, shit-covered men in decaying rags moved a step ahead. Ten men in front of Iskhaq Asur a guard spooned a different, but sickeningly similar gruel into the plastic bowls carried by each inmate of the camp, then moved the line onward. The guard was flanked by two others, one armed with a club, the other with a thick and dull reddened machete, who served as absurdly unnecessary reminders of the importance of not stepping out of line, not causing trouble, and not complaining about the food. Iskhaq and his fellow residents of Camp No. 3 were in no need of reminders now - months of nothing but broth to eat and hard labor on little sleep had rendered them all but incapacitated. The inmates could hardly lift the bowls into which their shit was ladled before it became shit in their bodies, much less lift a finger in defiance of the guards.
The number of inmates at Camp No. 3 was small, but growing - several hundred men lived here now, outside of Sarazah. Ten or so died each week - Iskhaq Asur had had associates here, once, men arrested with him, or men whom he got on with once acquainted in the camp, but all but two had died in the months since his arrival, and speaking was too much a waste of energy - Asur hadn't spoken to anyone in days.
As Asur shambled closer and closer to his meal, he coughed again, this time with no expulsion of shit, and he thanked Aki... He stopped himself mid-thought, eyeing the guard with the machete furtively, worried that his blasphemy might have shown on his skeletal face, or that his body might have betrayed his mind, somehow. He'd seen men lose fingers or toes for it before. The guard had been preoccupied, thankfully, and had noticed nothing. A sigh of relief was beyond the former priest - to expel air in such volume was wasteful and exhausting. Instead, he simply lowered his eyes to the dust again, wondering when he might join the rocks and the dust in tired decomposition.
He stepped forward. The guard with the gruel ladled a small bit into his bowl, gray as the ground and with thin strands of something to give it texture. Ishkaq Asur moved forward.
Just a bunch of shit.