Following Dorn inside, Pligal noticed two of the other six men still lay in their holes. The other four moved about the hall in a hurried attempt to prepare for the marshal of warriors. As the horn's cycle resounded, once more, scuffling erupted outside the Hall of Gloom.

Loud slaps hit the skin of the hall making the skin bow inward. Aggressive grunts, heard by the men in Pligal's hall, caused their attention to shift toward the disturbance. The two which rested in their death cycle shifted their bodies uncomfortably, one letting out an annoyed huff of air.

"Findel, you need to move quicker," Dorn said turning his back on him. "Our San will be here soon."

Findel, the one who expelled air in exasperation quickly moved outside of his hole. The San, their instructor, assigned to them until they completed the training requirements or were expelled due to failure. Their San particularly expressed animosity toward these Erons, cruelty his dialect, torment his passion.

Twelve of them started training together. In three days, the San crushed the will of the four. Some became unresponsive and catatonic while others retreated to their holes, burying their faces in sobs.

Remembering the sight of these poor individuals, their scales losing their luster. Their initial vibrant yellow scales quickly fading to gradations of gray and red, colors spelling certain death within their community. Pligal's thorax ached to see his fellow Ak-Wo in such great pain, such deep turmoil.

One cannot survive in the land nor hunt without proper color patterns. Stealth led the Erons to live and hunt in the land of Duidon. Ordering Pligal and the others to gather the sick and bring them to another location, their San expressed nothing but contempt toward these broken ones.

Together, carrying their distraught comrades deep in the rock, the entrance, located near the center of the Legion's training site, thought, before then, by Pligal and the others to be the area where the weapons were stored. Pligal's thorax heaved with rapid respiration, his talons ached as he held onto his comrade. Many steps away from the Hall of Gloom, curiosity drove him to discover where this path would lead. His steps quickening in excitement, despite his fatigue. His partner, helping him carry their comrade, the same Findel who lazily lay in his pit, slowly waking from his Death State.

"Ghh!" Findel grunted. "Slow yourself."

Quietly acquiescing, Pligal slowed as Findel already used his staff to help stabilize himself. Pligal not witnessing sloth, but extreme fatigue, allowed Findel to set the pace of their mission. Regaining his pace with Findel, Pligal attempted to observe everything around him.

Pligal and Findel, the last of the four groups, Dorn and the others just ahead of them, reached an archway marking the path down into the deep. Pligal knew of a belief that stated the dark one's dwelt underneath, however his people did not carry that belief.

The rock entrance, a mound three normal Eron bodies high. Its base stretched farther than the Hall of Gloom appearing dark inside. San stood at the entrance, waiting for the four groups to approach him.

Shifting impatiently, he said "Move it Rots! You filth of the Ak-Wo!"

His voice, crisp as a blade, caused many of the legionnaires to tremble. Although smaller than Pligal, San was intimidating in many ways. Dorn, the powerhouse of their group dared not speak ill of the creature. Aside from his harsh demeanor, his appearance was more striking.

San appeared nearly luminescent yellow, his scale lines barely observable. Furthermore, the spots on his scales resembled deep earth, hard brown in hue, they emoted his callousness, his fury. When he moved, his body formed a melody to the orbs. Gazing upon him in the rays of the Light god ushered ocular piercing tremors. These warriors in training had difficulties maintaining contact with their onyx orbs upon his visage.

Waving his talons, attempting to hurry them, the first two entered, while the last three groups stopped in amazement. The blackness swallowed them as if they slowly sunk into tar. No reverberation nor shimmer met on the surface of the gateway.

"Go through! It won't hurt you, coward!" The last word holding longer than needed.

The two carrying the body of their comrade looked at each other and moved as ordered. Once close enough to the opening they slowed even more. Trepidation within each step filled the legionnaires as the gloom absorbed them.

Dorn and Pligal's group remained as they moved in and feeling the peculiar sensation. Cold kissed their scales, caressing them gently, slightly pulsating through their hide, lingering on their scales as a matriarch's touch. Pligal closed his orbs through the process, his thorax tingling for a short period before replaced by soothing warmth. Opening his field of vision, he met with a sloping platform spiraling deep into the rock illuminated by blue plasma.

Further, they moved around for what seemed like minutes before entering a larger room with two black portals with their contents obscured. A hole, twice the size of Pligal's death state pit, fell at the center of the room, four beams with plasma at their tips circling the hole. The other three groups stood ahead regaining their strength while awaiting San's instruction. Entering the room behind everyone, moving towards the hole in the center, San turned to point his talons in front of the pit.

"Set them down there. You're dismissed afterward. Report directly back to the Hall of Gloom. We will assemble at first light tomorrow. Now hurry!" San said forcefully.

Each group moved quickly to the point they needed to drop their comrades off. After Pligal gently set his peer down, he turned to San.

"What will happen to them?" Pligal asked suspiciously.

"Move! Now! Or I'll bathe this room with your fluids little Rot." He said, uncharacteristically coolly.

So much so, Pligal received the inclination he has done so before. Feeling the danger of this man, Pligal left abruptly. Before turning the corner, he looked and saw San point a stick of plasma on one of the unconscious, the fiery miasma encircling the legionnaire before kicking them in the pit.

Horrified, Pligal fled passing three of his peers before slowing his pace, avoiding others throughout the night. The image continued to play in his mind. Seeing his peer, his fellow legionnaire swallowed by the plasma, falling deeper into the pit, a great weight lingered on Pligal's thorax, a deep sorry swelling in his orbs.

Now, awaited San outside the Hall of Gloom, black staffs tucked tight against their shoulders and thoraxes, while many other Legionnaires scuttled about, the legionnaires readied themselves. The other trainees hurried to their meeting areas or headed to the Nordac, a large field used to address the whole training site.

The speaking grounds elevated, here, so the speaker's voice could carry. The field stretched long. A past long past remnant of the one lush and fertile streams of Sangre formerly pouring throughout the area.

Deep grooves allowed the Erons to climb down in steps. Grooves caused by so many cycles, cycles, which melded the yellowed land within the Crimson. Sinking and pushing down into the darker land, the brown, which contain large near-white beads, small things actually, a fraction of the size of the onyx orbs of the Erons, littered the ground. Flickering softly like bio-luminescent algae. Once the light no longer lingered in the sky above, the Nordac mirrored the former glory of the heavens through its twinkling melody.

This mirage shifted one's perception in the darkness. The gelatinous Torsons could not perceive this location was not a hole in the planet into space. So, the training site was built around this location. Serving a tactical advantage to place the location of one's recruits in a highly protected area, this design ensures that more forces could defeat the foes of the Erons. Of course, Baron Rictol's residence as well as office remained mere scales away.

Pligal listened to the ebb and flow of his people. So many hurried bodies attempting to arrive at the same location. Witnessing the contortion of worry on many while some appeared calm, yet their scales destroyed that façade. Shimmering violently, unable to consciously control their pulses, they evidenced their fragile thoughts.

Two hard steps sounded directly behind Pligal followed by a sharp blow to his middle thorax causing him to fly forward his full height. With his left talon clutched upon his staff, Pligal turned quickly to witness the originator of the disturbance.

"You cursed Rots sicken me!" San cried spitting near Pligal's location.

Quickly scurrying to regain his place in rank, Pligal strengthened his posture. Knowing not to assault San's notation of disrespect, Pligal remained vigilant as San eyed his movements attempting to find a weakness. Bored, turning toward the main path to the Nordac, now nearly vacant now, most of the Erons arrived at the location already.

"Let's go! Move it!" San said trotting down the path.

Pligal and the others followed immediately after. A rumble, low in its infancy, quickened the closer they arrived at the Nordac. The soft conversations of the multitude reverberating against the pristine walls of the amphitheater.

The entrance clogged with bodies waiting, a sea of Legionnaire trainees with their black staffs filling each nook of the area. All the while, their own San remained nearby. Pligal's group waited for additional orders as their San did not wait, merely cutting through the crowd. Where there were trainees shoulder to shoulder, a path emerged. No trainee would dare place hands upon a San as they were fearsome creatures.

Wedging themselves to follow, they moved deep within the group. Near the front where the mound of the speaker lays. A shadow stood on the stone. Raising its arms, the murmuring slowed before stopping completely to provide their rapt attention.

Above their heads, the Light god pushed the air to caress the heads of the Erons. Cooling them in their condensed form. Meanwhile, the figure moved closer to the edge of the speaker's dome. With the Light god behind him, he shadowed the people with a large frame. Three times the size of Pligal's athletically formed thorax. Dorn, with his large strong frame, was still smaller than this creature. Large quantities of nourishment and an endless supply of Crimson inflated his thorax. His movements were slow, shuffling at times, his thorax shook slightly with increased respirations. At last, he was in position. Upon further scrutiny with his onyx orbs, Pligal witnessed the Baron himself.

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