STAR WARS: TAAREN

CHAPTER NINE.

       PUK WAS AWOKEN by the low growling of one of the prison guards, who had opened up the barred doors. "Time to wake up, freaks!" He yelled, and through bleary eyes, Puk slowly and groggily lifted his head up.

       He couldn't remember how long he'd been there, how many times the guards had come to rouse he and Kii'rava awake, ready for fresh beatings and interrogations to dig for answers they didn't even have.

       The guard approached Puk, using the flat of his blade to lift up his chin, inspecting him. He wanted to make sure none of the wounds left too many marks, so he'd be fine to be beaten later. Satisfied, he left Puk alone, moving to look at Kii'rava.

       "What's the special occasion?" Puk mumbled, voice gravelly and raw, and the guard glared at him.

       "Don't speak unless you're spoken too, pest." He snapped, before a smirk danced across ridged snout. "But, we thought we'd take you for a little walk. The King requests an audience."

       Puk's eyes flicked to Kii'rava's, and she nodded — 'now's our chance!' she almost seemed to exclaim, but the guard seemed to catch on it.

       "We're securing you with bindings and muzzles, once again, pumped with magicka. Don't even think about escaping. We'll bind your tails if you try to get us with that." He growled, taking off the neck brace as another guard presented herself, cuffs in hands.

The bindings were pulled tight around hands, skin raw and festering from the tautness of the ones they had already been wearing. Muzzles were secured to faces, and a collar fastened around each of their necks. Puk felt like a common animal, looking to Kii'rava hopelessly, who winced and tried to shrug the guards off, to no avail.

       The Raptoids were led down a dark corridor, and the pungent smell of death and faeces attacked their senses. Their mouths may have been muzzled but their nostrils could still smell, and it revolted Puk. Meanwhile, he tried desperately to find Ashla and Braig, peering into cages left and right — but it was all for nothing; they didn't appear to be anywhere.

       The two were led upstairs, where the ghastly odour dissipated and soon was gone, and the clean scent of fresh air washed away the blatant assault on their respiratory system. A hatch was lifted up, and blinding light hit them immediately, causing both Puk and Kii'rava to almost double over, hissing and wincing painfully at the brightness; something they'd gotten unaccustomed to during their time in the darkness.

       Once their eyes adjusted, it was a welcome change, and sounds of feasting and merriment filled the air. Puk had no clue how long they had been down there but he assumed it had been a while, considering everyone's moods. When he, Ashla, and Braig arrived back on Ra'arthak, it had been a few weeks until the Celebration of Victory; the annual festival dedicated to Lek'ro, God of War himself, so he could only assume that they were all in preparation for it now. The thought that they'd been locked up so long made his stomach churn.

       "Smells good, huh?" One of the guards jeered, fanged teeth in a wicked grin. "Well, we'll see what His Majesty has to say about the little stunts you've pulled. If it were me, I'd make you live off of prison gruel for the rest of your five hundred years of life." He cackled, entering the room that only the King himself could reside in.

       There was an open ceiling, with giant plants enveloping it, creeping around throne of Drek'en stone — an exceptionally rare Ra'arthakian gem — and up and against walls. On the throne itself sat a middle aged looking Raptoid, with pooling blue feathers to compliment a golden complexion. He wore armour of silver, and with how medieval they all looked, you wouldn't even consider the armour and weaponry used off-world at all. Beside the regal lizard, stood Drokath-ek.