The cell was dark and damp. 3 Walls of stone, one of solid iron bars, all stretching upwards into the black. A small flickering candle outside the cell was the only outside company to be seen.
A long thin rag, perhaps a cloak once, covered in blood, dirt and grime was there for a blanket, and the cold hard stone for a bed. Finally, a single rotting wooden bucket, left in the corner for waste. The thin bald man occupying the cell, clad in little more than a dirty loin cloth, sat up and set his back against the stone wall. He looked around frantically, eyes wide and afraid.
He scrambled over to the iron bars, clutching them as he called out, "Hello?". Only silence greeted him. Realisation flooded into his eyes, turning them hard. "Damn!" he whispered to himself as he sank back against the stone wall. "Never get caught. That's your own damn rule!" he muttered angrily, as he put his head in his hands. But how had he been caught? He couldn't for the life of him remember. The last thing he remembered was leading the assault on the cultists camp. Then nothing.
'Maybe you're going mad' he thought to himself humourlessly, but no, Malcom Grant was young and a seasoned veteran and it would take more than a beating and one night in a cell to break him.
Once he had calmed himself, he looked up and took in his surroundings. 'No point wallowing in self pity,' he thought to himself, 'lets see what we have and get out of here.'
The wall on the far side was scratched with repeated single lines, counting days he imagined. Some poor sod had been here for a long time before him. There must've been thousands of lines. Years.
But that wasn't what interested him. What did was the fact the wall was solid stone, in good repair if you disregarded the dirt. It would require something sharp and hard to make those kind of deep marks.
He hoped whoever had left them had also left the tool, something like that could come in handy with an escape. He searched the cell methodically, thinking through all the places he would hide something in there. There weren't many if any places to hide something in the cell. He had almost given up looking when his eyes fell upon a small crack in the wall, right in the corner, hidden by shadows. A moments probing with his fingers found a nail, wedged deep into the crack, old and rusted but still sharp. He praised the light and thanked his luck.
He now had opened up two options. Using the nail to try and unlock the cell or attacking the guard who would bring food and water. The latter was more of a last ditch desperate option, but better than none.
Ideally he would be out and gone before anyone noticed. He examined the lock from every angle and when ready inserted the nail. He started gently, then strained harder, and harder, and harder until the veins on his neck bulged with the effort. Finally, arms trembling, he heard the small, well oiled click of the lock. The iron bars that served as a door began to swing open slowly as he collapsed, breathing hard. Despite his triumph he was aware of how hungry and thirsty he was. He must have been unconscious longer than he thought, to grow so weak. It may have taken days to drag him here. He sat up and ran his fingers through his beard, staring at the now open cell door. The hair was longer than he remembered.
Perhaps weeks then. It mattered little though, he needed food and he needed water if he was to get out with enough strength to survive. His plan began to form. With much regret and painstaking effort he relocked the cell door.
He would wait for food and water to be delivered, however little it was, noticing from which way his jailor came and departed. Once he had enough strength, he would unlock the cell and follow the direction of his captor.
From there he would have to make it up as he went, as he had no knowledge of what waited in the darkness outside his cell. It wasn't much but it was his best shot as far as he could see it. Before hiding the nail, he added a scratched line onto the wall.
His one and only he hoped. He hid the nail back in the crack, for lack of a better place, and sat back down to wait.
It must have been hours before he heard the sound of a door bang open somewhere within the darkness outside his cell. He sat with his eyes closed, waiting and listening, trying to count the footsteps of his captor from the door to his cell.
But he heard nothing. Not a sound. Pure deathly silence. He thought that maybe someone wasn't coming until he opened his eyes, and yelped in surprise.
Standing right outside his cell was a figure hooded and cloaked. The candle outside cast flickering shadows, hiding much, but the light did reveal some of his face. His skin was pale as winters frost, and his eyes black as night.
His mouth was hidden, but from the crinkling of his eyes, Malcom knew he was smiling. The jailors hands appeared, wearing black gloves, one held a cup of thick liquid, the other a key.
Malcom remained seated, watching the man as he inserted the key.
Click.
The bars swung open. The man seemed unarmed, a perfect chance to attack if any thought Malcom. But the thought failed to take hold in his mind, floating away like a leaf on the wind.
Something about the man unnerved Malcom, and he somehow knew, if he attacked, he would die. The cloaked captor entered the cell and handed the cup to him.
Malcom looked at the liquid, thick and dark. "Drink" the jailor commanded, his voice like a thousand whispers.
"What is it..?" asked Malcom, not removing his eyes from the jailor. "Sustenance" replied the jailor, "Drink".
This time the command somehow took hold of Malcom, and before he knew it he was drinking. 'Screw it' he thought, 'Tastes like ash but its better than nothing'. When he was finished, the jailor took the cup and closed the cell.
Click.
He seemed to be smiling again but when Malcom blinked to focus, the man was gone. Something about him was all too familiar thought Malcom, but it mattered little. He decided he would wait until his stomach settled then he would begin.
However, his stomach didn't seem to settle. It churned with whatever foul liquid it was he had drunk. He began to feel dizzy and faint. He had seen the jailor before, he knew it. The room began to spin. Darkness took him.
The thin old man occupying the cell, clad in little more than a dirty loin cloth, sat up and set his back against the stone wall. He looked around frantically, eyes wide and afraid. He scrambled over to the iron bars, clutching them as he called out, "Hello?". Only silence greeted him. Realisation flooded into his eyes, turning them hard. "Damn!" he whispered to himself as he sank back against the stone wall. "Never get caught. That's your own damn rule!" he muttered angrily, as he put his head in his hands.
But how had he been caught? He couldn't for the life of him remember. The last thing he remembered was leading the assault on the cultists camp. Then nothing. 'Maybe you're going mad' he thought to himself humourlessly, but no, Malcom Grant was a young and seasoned veteran and it would take more than a beating and one night in a cell to break him...