The ear raking clinks of chisels on stone echoed throughout the entry way to what was to be the Grand Temple of Hissilickosk, the eternal serpent of stars. Amidst the yet to be plastered pillars of stone were skeletons of makeshift scaffolding and rope. The beasts of burden labored to and fro amongst the walls. Two to three dozen males, with their bodies wielding hides of scale, tails, and maws of reptiles alike hung from cradles and hammocks of rope dangling far above the rough stone flooring. Each worked in stern concentration on molding the stones loosely placed within their future eternal positions along the displays of the walls within the entry hall. Each stone carried a hieroglyph of extreme importance telling the tale of the past, present, and future of their kind as dictated by Hissilickosk’s myth. Each laborer was given a hide, struck and inked with precise instructions and descriptions of the stone they were meant to carve within their place among the wall. The depth of the carvings, the intricacies of the figures, and the exact measurements of each filed piece of quarried stone to match the accumulated growth the wall would angle towards the entrance to the still emptied Tomb of Kings. The internal monument was meant to start flat towards the entrance, and as you were mesmerized by the artistic renditions of the flow of time, slowly the room would angle with denser glyphs and walls towards the interior of the building. Dust from the endless, measured chiseling filled the hall. Each and every of those who deemed to enter were forced to wear muzzles of cloth around their maws to ensure they did not breath in anything harsher than natural, humid air.
	One lizard, noticeably more hulking in general girth than the rest tapped away diligently near the entryway. Far up against the ceiling where the smooth scales of his head were forced to uncomfortably press into the roof. His neck ached, loyally keeping its posture as he performed his obligation. His hands were wide, thick, and constantly colliding into each other at the wrists. They obscured his vision, and his own lack of precise dexterity forced him to lag far behind the rest of his work force. He had to either make a single strike of effort before reviewing or to tap away cautiously on faith alone. Many times, had he failed this hieroglyph, forced to clamber from the ropes and scale down the nearby pillar to the ground to find a slab of stone of appropriate shape and size. He had lost count of his failures, but his overseer hadn’t. The sun would be setting soon, and this shift would end once the torches were lit for those selected to work the night arrived. He had been at this single piece since the early morning, and it was only the first of his section of the walls.
Down below several lizard men like him, only a good measure smaller, were speaking amongst themselves. They spoke of the mundane of their days, theocratical disputes of dogma, plans for future sections of the temple, and ultimately progress of the day. It was easy to completely miss what they said specifically; being so far away, drowned out by the still consistent chiseling of rock, and ultimately with work being the focus of attention. Yet, even amongst every possible hinderance, sentient beings are conscious to their names being spoken. Far down below, the day work force’s overseer said his scornful piece with the mention of “Slissk.” The hulking lizard above paused in his work briefly, catering to an anxious knot in his stomach that came from the sound of his own name being spoken.
	“Slissk,” was a word, in the common language, meaning “earth.” More specifically, in conversations it meant “dirt,” “soil,” or even “common refuse.”  He had earned the name on the first solstice celebration after his hatching. Out of all the other hatchlings, he had simply waddled in place amongst the dampened mud, but never sank. His father was adamant about the name, hoping that it’d display his natural strength to the rest of those attending. Forever would he be known as sturdy as the very soil and rock they walked upon. Luckily for his father, and apparently when he was so young that he couldn’t remember, he had enjoyed wiggling about in damp spots before napping in the driest spot of dirt around. He was always one akin to the land. Yet from then on, numerous mundane trials, ceremonies, and simple social activities came and went. Nothing more came from him when he was but a quarter of a year old, and still to this day. It had him stick out amongst his kind, to be named after nothing more than the dirt they live on. “Dirt” was his name, and he lived as if he was worth it.
The tap of his hammer to the chisel etched away a sliver of stone. One motion after another etched away from the stone to form the glyph. Clearer and clearer through his work did the great depiction of this portion of the eternal myth, telling of creation and end, become ever that much clearer into form. Then, after what he thought was yet another carefully calculated pound of his hammer into the chisel, he made the simple mistake of striking just a bit too hard by a breath and producing a crack along the concave edge of what was to be the most prominent curve of the glyph. The lizard closed his eyes, head leaning back with his teeth clenched tight. A desperate, pleading hiss to the heavens spilled from between his teeth into the air before he dared to look. Mustering the courage, he instantly pulled his head back to look, eyes wide in agonizing hope. Time felt as if it had slowed, and he could see that the crack had not become any worse. Sure, the glyph was already deemed a waste and he would be reprimanded, but at least it would seem as something relatively minor, progress from the countless butcheries he’s dropped to the ground before already. He could be able to save face. Then, before he could blink the inner lids of his eyes, a barely audible “crick” came from the stone. The crack rapidly spread in a jagged line and grew darker with depth. A quarter of the glyph gave way and crumbled off into the air as it plummeted towards the floor a good many meters below. It was over.
Slissk’s heart clenched painfully within his chest, and a storm of anxiety fueled nausea rolled within his gut. Another failure, maybe the exact millionth to his name by this point. If it was, then at least that’d be an accomplishment he could take comedic pride in. There was no clattering, clamor, or calls from down below to signal what had just occurred. It was only a glyph, they were broken all the time by the laborers today, the day before, and the days before that. It’d simply be swept up, ground to powder, and then added to the mortar or filling the masons would prepare for the future construction. It was the fact that it had been yet another wasted stone amongst countless others throughout the day. Suddenly, the walls seemed to blend into a mix of shallow shadows and warmer light contending to shine between his limbs along the wall. The new complexity of the patterns along the wall gave his eyes a jolt of physical recognition. They ached, dry and strained from how hard he had focused on either staring straight into nothing or on the small details of every glyph he’d destroyed. His throat felt tight as well, both from thirst and sensation of fighting back both bile and a needed vocal cry of anguish. Slissk leaned forward to dig his forehead into the spot that he had been working on continuously. His scales ached from the pressure when he twisted side to side to express his regret, and knocking away what loose pebbles remained of his mistake down to the floor below. A sharp whistle shrieked throughout the hall to signal that their work was done for the day, but he did not react. Slissk merely kept himself in the posture of a failure, blew out a dry, anguished hiss of shame, and then began to work his way out of the hammock towards the nearest pillar. “Maybe I’ll get lucky just this once,” he thought while securing a firm grip on what edges of uneven stone he could, “one of these rocks could come loose and send me plummeting head first to my death.”
By the time Slissk’s feet had made it to the ground level, most of the other workers had already been lined up, searched, and then filed out one by one to be paid what tabs of silver they had earned for the day’s work. Few coupled away to discuss the way or to simply loiter until the majority had left, hoping to avoid a crowd. Slissk stewed in disappointment at his lack of speed scaling down the pillar. He was already easy enough to pick out in any mass of scales, but now it’d be even easier. He left his tools with the present quartermaster, and then shuffled towards the line. Before he could even find his place within the moving huddle however, he felt a warm open palm pressed against the hide of his back. “Another day then,” said the owner of the palm. It was a smaller lizard, his scales a shade of washed-out green, as opposed to the dull, near pure grey of Slissk’s. Hessku was his name, and he had the unfortunate pleasure of being Slissk’s father. The anticipation of what ridicule and shame he would receive later over the review of his work, or simple discussion of his day with his father built a choking fear within Slissk’s throat. He could only grunt in response. The smaller, older lizard didn’t expect an answer, nor did he care for one. He merely addressed his spawn out of near apathetic obligation. Before they had arrived for their daily labor, Hessku had already expected nothing but disappointment from his son.
	Slissk stared ahead towards the direction of the line, focusing on the overseer handing over each laborer’s payment for the day. He tried to avoid grimacing as he shuffled closer with the crowd. He still had hopes that if he kept himself at least neutral, maybe this overseer wouldn’t pay notice to him out of handing him his unearned due. He clenched his teeth against each other in an attempt to steady his features. It was wasted effort however, as when the overseer gave a passing glance in Slissk’s direction his lips parted to reveal a cruel grin.  The anxious lizard’s every breath carried a barely audible wince. Every step he took closer to collect his pay had his mind doubling its effort of preparing himself for the inevitable chastisement. He was only seven lizards away, casually grabbing from his bag and then dropping into the waiting palms of the laborers the handful of thinly pressed silver tablets they’d earned. Slissk blinked both sets of his eyelids and suddenly he was only two lizards away, close enough to hear the overseer clearly. “Aha, boulder boy at last. I heard you had a very productive day today,” mocked the overseer, handing over another bundle of silver pieces to the lizard in front of him. Slissk remained silent, slowly trailing his gaze to the floor. The next lizard stepped forward, eagerly accepting his daily reward. The overseer spoke as he dug through his bag, “tell me, did you reach your quota for the day? What were you supposed to reach by now?” Slissk knew he was expected to respond, but could merely muster up a mumbled “I… I um… I don’t know uh…” A quiet clanking of several light pieces of metal could be heard as the lizard ahead collected his silver. Slissk moved up to replace him, his large hands cupped together expectantly. The overseer reached into his bag, still questioning as he counted what he could gather with his fingers alone, “you don’t know? Well do you know how much you’ve done today at all? Maybe instead you kept count of how many times you’ve insulted the gods with your sacrilegious ineptitude?”
	The hulking lizard’s shoulders sank as his posture turned pitiful. The overseer hissed a brief bit of air through his teeth in amused disgust. His hand holding the silver pieces out stretched and hovered over Slissk’s palms, yet he did not part his fingers. “Do you think you really deserve this for what you’ve done any of the days you’ve been here?” the overseer asked. He spoke again before Slissk could speak, already expecting another mumbling retort, “answer me you ungrateful whelp. You know the omens told me to be forgiving for this moon’s passing, but I find it hard to follow when I see you begging for the people’s silver.” Slissk huffed air through his teeth, his insides tensing and feeling suddenly cold. He opened his mouth. “I don’t kn-“ he started, being suddenly interrupted by a jeer from further down the line,  “hurry up you shit headed oaf! My eggs are waiting for me!” More insults and complaints started to come after the first of the angry crowd bravely spoke. Slissk winced audibly to the amusement of the overseer. His head turned downward to the floor, and he simply closed his eyes shut. He didn’t notice, but his body began to shake with tension due to how he instinctively flexed his muscles. The voices turned into a blurred rumbling that mixed with the miscellaneous sounds of the world around him. The overseer spoke to him again, but he couldn’t hear it. It wasn’t until the feeling of cold, light metal clattered into his palms that he was brought out of his panic. All he could do was close his hands together to keep the silver secure in his grasp, and continue shuffling forward out of the temple. His father faced no issues, and neither did any lizard behind him as they collected their payment.