((Note, I purposefully did not describe what a Rattius looks like, because I am eventually going to add illustrations, as done by the Lovable (but not to mention adorable) @_@' of Gametalk. Here's a sketch of a Rattius, with LOTS of guidelines, though, as drawn by @_@'.))

http://tinyurl.com/35cdm8

The Rattius

Book 1, Shortsnout

Part 1: The Prison

Prison is Hell. He learned this quickly.

His condition had been poor at best when they brought him in, and nothing had been done to improve it. During the first few weeks, they had served him rotting meat, the taste enough to make him dry heave. It lingered in his mouth, waiting until saliva carried it to the back of his tongue so he could wrench up the maggot-ridden food. It happened twice. But after the first month, they only gave him water, enough to keep him alive but not enough to keep him living.

He never thought he would miss the taste of bad carcass so much.

He lost track of time quickly, minutes merging to hours, and hours turning to days, to weeks. And his condition only worsened. He was bound in iron chains, the wrists and ankles tied down. The skin underneath had chafed away, making the spots sore and occasionally bleeding. His body had shut down a long time ago in this captivity. He no longer stood, but only laid down on the ground. The chains were not a problem there--they too were tethered to the earth by a steel girder a few feet behind him. His limp body only moved twice a day. To drink.

The cell was unorthodox in that there was barely any security, minus the chains. The ground was sandy, with hard-packed dirt underneath. The area was square, ten feet in length with high walls made of large blocks and mortar. There was nothing on these walls. He couldn’t reach them. However, the floor was covered in his dripping blood, as the wrists and ankles weren’t the only places that hurt like hell. There were cold sores on his mouth, and in between his fingers and toes, the skin was cracked and dry, constantly breaking and peeling. He had been beaten, but only in his first weeks (they stopped at the same time as the food). Now the bruises were healing, but the tender flesh was easy to reopen, only taking a small stretch to do so. Every time he tried to get a drink of water, he was losing the same amount as he consumed because of how much he bled.

Another thing about his prison: there was no ceiling. The high walls ended, but nothing began after. Some believe that having such light would be a blessing, a gift for the damned. Not so. The harsh, hot light burned him, weakened him, and kept him submissive to the whim of his captors. At night, no clouds trapped this devilish heat, making the dark hours frigidly cold. This alternation of climate was maddening, Mother Nature herself seeming to be against the prisoner. It was almost as though hope was more easily eradicated under this taunting, burning light than the small, tantalizing glare of a high window. Rain did not come to relieve him either. It never came. Instead, sandstorms would blow. They blew down upon his bloody and beaten form, sand flying into the gaping wounds and causing him to cry out in pain, much to the delight of his jailors. No…A roof would have been a blessing. The sun was a curse.

II

Second meal. Second meal of the day…or had he drifted off in the middle of the previous, and woke up in the next without his conscious knowledge? The sun would not tell. The harsh glare only laughed. Only laughed at his pain.

The Rattius, for that was what he was, lifted his head up as the sound of the wooden door opened. It was only latch-locked, and could have been easily broken by a desperate inmate. There was no need for high security here, after all. He was in chains. He was beaten. He was defeated. No need to place unnecessary precautions.

The jailor--one of two--entered now with a pail of water. He called this one Wary, a symbol of his disposition towards the prisoner. The captor was careful, sly…Never taking chances, despite his odds. He was wise. The Rattius sentinel (for he, too, was a member of the species) regarded him with suspicion every time he entered, and never did his eye leave the prisoner or his foot get too close. The sufferer knew this, and knew that if he ever escaped, it would not be on Wary’s fault.

The guard placed the pail down in the sand a few feet away from the limit of his chains. With a single foot, he then shoved the bucket so that it slid along the floor to the prisoner. Alas, the bucket hit a small hump of sand at the last second, spilling the contents onto the ground, soaking the bloodied sand and hard earth under it. The dirt drank thankfully, ravenously, and in less then a minute it would all be gone. Wary laughed at this, and only proceeded to do so harder as the captive began to lap up the dirtied water with his tongue, like a dog. He needed every bit of nutrition, even if it came with a price.

At last, the fun seen in such a setting lost its glamour to Wary, so he digressed, walking out and locking the door. The prisoner sighed as he left, glad for the solitude. No company was better than the wrong company.

Another thing he had learned quickly.

III

A sandstorm came. None heard his cries of pain but his captors.

IV

First meal of the next day. This he knew for certain, because had been unable to sleep the night before. The pain had been too great.

The second of the two Rattius jailors appeared through the wooden door, this one dubbed Taunt by the prisoner’s fevered and starved mind. Taunt was younger than Wary, and twice as cocky in result. He was practically courting death with his various risks. He would come close to the prisoner, so very close, only to pull away at the last second when he tried to grab the young Rattius. It was this jeering that had christened him the name, and the suffering one knew that his escape was within Taunt.

Today, he could tell that this was not his day of escape. The young Rattius looked tired, perhaps not getting as much sleep as usual (small wonder why). Because of this, the sentinel only lumbered up to the prisoner at the very limit of his chains, went past this line that prevented danger, and set the bucket down within reaching distance of the Rattius. While doing so, he himself was placed in the reach of the captive, but was able to dodge the feeble swipe made by his sick opponent and back into safety. Now began the verbal abuse, another habit made routine by these many visits to the cell.

“Good morning, sir,” he began, taking the tone of a butler. “What would you be interested in this fine day? A walk in the park, perhaps? Sorry to say, master, but you do not look up for it. You don’t look well at all, as if you hadn’t eaten in weeks! Perhaps another--”

He was cut short by a quick glace at his target. Taunt saw within the face of the prisoner a dark look. No, not a dark look, an evil glare. One that spoke of malcontent and death, a stare that he had not seen before from the captive. Sudden fear seized him, though he did not show it, but still he fell to its horrible might and walked out the door without another word.

Despite his condition, a smirk and a dark chuckle escaped his lips before the evil look dissipated back to the worn, defeated face of the prisoner.

V

They began to feed him meat that night. He knew what it meant, and so did Wary. Maybe that’s why he laughed without even spilling his water.