Snippet #1873500

Cain opened his eyes in the first time for hours. Orogs didn't sleep so he wasn't "waking up" in the traditional sense. He was in a state of torpor. It was a state of lowered physiological activity typically characterized by reduced metabolism, heart rate, respiration, and body temperature that occurred in varying degrees especially in hibernating and estivating animals. His eye lids opened slowly, in languid action. His ebony colored eyes, he stared out through the broken remnants of glass. His face void of emotion, stone gray colored lips barely pursing together as he contemplated, pushing out all the other voices like shoving every Orog out of the room in his head. He would leave them be for now.

What would he do with the girl? How would he tell her father had sent her here to be married to an Orog? To be orphaned, even if he hadn't been killed? There was no doubt in Cain's mind that, he would have eventually come after her. A feeble rescue attempt perhaps. Or perhaps to put her out of her misery should she so be implanted with the seed of an unborn child of heritages thought to be an abomination? He leaned back in his stone seat, letting his arm rest down on the broad, flat surface of the arm. He stared out as a king would, surveying his dead and decayed landscape. Should he tell her out right, or should he wait for her to come of it on her own? What would she think of it either way? She was Silvian after all...the name disgusted him. They were pompous creatures, whose only delight was in ensuring they were on top of the world. They didn't care about rejoining the human race, they cared little for humans as they were not as smart as them.

For Orogs though, there was hell to pay. For past transgressions they would have seen the Orogs exterminated in their genocidal campaign. Had he not killed his father and taken control of the Orogs, made them some what unified, or at least directed them towards a common enemy--they mine as well have been. He stood up from his seat and stepped towards the windows, starring upwards towards the blackened sky. There was no telling night from day any more, not here at least. It was always dark, always cold. It was always muddy. He was tired of living like a rat, or a roach ready to be crushed beneath a bootheel...