They felt the warm hand upon their stone form, their eyes opening, their flesh restoring, how long had they been asleep. The being before them had kind eyes.... "are...ze...an.. orc?"
The being looked upon them and shook a heavy head. "We're not called that." / "Iz been zleeping for a long time. Wvat...are....ze called dzen?"
"Once I set camp to rest, we can talk, is that alright?" / "Of courze."
It was a long talk late into the night, and the start of a very interesting friendship -- Anon Guest
[AN: Like fuck am I going to continue the phonetically transcribed accent. Sorry not sorry, Nonny]
Of the universal Adventuring truths, one of them is, "Nobody ever makes realistic statues of people screaming in horror." Durzakh knew it well. She'd been working the Basilisk's hunting grounds for years. Adventurers had left all the victims behind, claiming that the gods would sort them out.
Most gods couldn't be bothered, so Durzakh came with the potions and spells to restore those who had been left behind. Those who were intact at any rate. The broken ones were beyond her help. She could only plant a flag nearby for the stone-shapers to mend their shattering.
If all went well, people would be walking away with all the same colour to their skin, and clothes. As it was, they were lucky to walk out.
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