An inglorious thud of impact crashes through the monotones of the dripping and filth and silence of the asylum. The warriors' eyes come suddenly alive. They move up from the dirt floor of his dank holding cell to the twisted lump just now thrown there, and then up and back again to the hole in the ceiling high above him from whence it had come hurtling down through. Someone peers back from above. A man in full plate armor. The helm looks familiar. Perhaps Astoran officer stock but these ponderances pass with an only dulled interest … for the warrior is undead. The figure above turns to profile as if something far off calls … and then departs.
The warrior brings himself up slowly to stand. The now tattered leather suit, leggings and boots he arrived in is all he has. Perhaps leftover from some past station of discarded importance. He moves over to the fallen form in his cell. It is man shaped, Hollowed to a husk and … reeking a rotted stench of diseased humanity… typical remains of an accursed but this appears to have been a corpse for some time. Round its neck is a twined jailers key. The warrior moves to take it but as he reaches out his decayed, cold hands distract him for a brief moment. They are... of similar look to the corpse … yes of course they are yet it grips him nonetheless. He refocuses … the key is profoundly worn and heavy in hand. Magic permeates from it though but … could it? He pulls it off the corpse, moves to the gate of his cell and places it in the lock … a twist a pull … the deadlock clicks … the gate door creaks open… He pushes the gate open further.