And after their meals, those few men and women gorged to the point of immobility dangled their delicate, manicured hands over the sides of their chairs. Morg watched agog from his cage as those desperate for their masters’ leavings, a multitude of servants, gathered to lick the salt and meaty juice from the fingers of their somnolent overlords. While the feasters dozed and the more fortunate among them took what sustenance they could from the sleeping hands, emaciated attendants crept about, quietly cleaning the bones and pits left behind, their soft footsteps lost in the careless snoring of their gluttonous betters.
Monday, July 31, 2017
Stan sighed as he slipped his punch card into the slit on the side of the machine. When he removed it, the time was stamped in the wrong spot. They were supposed to correct it when that happened, but Stan put his card away without caring. They weren’t going to fire him after all.
He lingered in the kitchen until his boss eyed him. Then he dragged himself to his desk and fell into his seat. He shuffled papers listlessly for thirty minutes before he managed to swallow his dissatisfaction and begin working at the stumbling pace of the apathetic.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
“Duck!” Halfin shouted, thrusting his hand forward and sending a jet of flame towards the ogre guard.
Morg threw himself on the ground and then winced. He felt flames scrap across his back, ruining his shirt and roast the flesh on his back.
In a moment he had banished the pain and leapt back to his feet. The elf that had been standing in front of him was rolling on the ground, gurgling, hands held over the remains of his face.
“Let’s go!” Halfin cried, grabbing Morg and pulling him towards the door before the other shocked elves could advance.