Mul sat against his cell wall, considering his options. The escape plans would still work, but what of Kresh? The Emperor seemed convinced of Kresh's destiny and the Blades wouldn't dare cross his wishes, but if these "hooded assassins" were to kill the man, what stops the guards from slitting the prisoner's throat? Kresh was a great warrior, but even Gortwog couldn't kill three of the Emperor's personal guards with his bare hands.
"Enough of this, it's time for action," Mul muttered to himself. He knew what he had to do. He would stick with the plan: he needed to get supplies then head to Cheydinhal. Maybe Burz gro-Khash could help him back to his feet.
As Mul rose to his feet, the dark elf motioned towards him dismissively. "Sit down, goblin-kin. There's no escape from here." Mul ignored him, grabbing the lone wooden table in the room and placing it under his cell's barred window. The wood was rotten and splintered, but it didn't have to hold up long for him to escape. The Orc stepped onto the table, shifting his weight from foot to foot to ensure his table wouldn't collapse. He gripped a rusted bar in each hand, channeling all of his strength into breaking them. He felt his familiar rage tightening his muscles as his effort increased. The elf was becoming interested in his efforts, but remained sitting in the back of his cell.
Just as the bars began to give way, Mul felt the table give out from underneath him. The rotten wood could no longer hold under his weight; the table collapsed in a heap with a wet cracking noise. Mul fell to the floor with a solid thud, rot softened shards of wood scattering around the cell. He sat up before looking down at the bars still clutched in each hand, releasing them to clatter to the floor. The bars had collapsed in on themselves; they were rusted almost all the way through. He rose to his feet, allowing himself a satisfied grin as he dusted himself off. "Well, that's half the job done."
The elf was now visibly agitated, realizing the Orc's escape was imminent. "Guards! Guards! Someone's escaping!" There was, of course, no answer.
Mul gripped the shackle chains hanging from the ceiling, lifting himself off the ground by them slowly. Once level with the window, be began kicking his feet to swing the chain, flinging himself towards the window once his momentum was sufficient. He caught onto the window ledge by his fingertips, scrambling for a more firm grip before quickly pulling himself through the window as the frantic elf screamed for someone to contain him.
Once in the open, Mul leaned against the massive stone wall of the prison, temporarily blinded by the sunlight. He once again thought through his plan. Before he could make way for Cheydinhal, he desperately needed weapons and supplies. An inn would work fine for the supplies, but if the forests of Cyrodiil housed even a fraction of the dangers of those of the Dragontails, he would never survive the night without weapons and armor. He would surely be captured if he went into the Imperial City, and he definitely didn't have time to go to another town. Mul peered towards the setting sun; he was rapidly running out of daylight. He resolved to make towards the inn before nighttime; his weapons situation would have to wait.
Mul vaguely remembered seeing an inn on the maps Dulfish had given him. If he was correct, there was one directly before the bridge to the city. He trekked around the city, moving away from the mass of well traveled roads on the other side. If he was correct, he would be approaching the inn from behind, reducing his visibility. He arrived at the Wawnet Inn shortly before sundown. Thankfully neither beast nor bandit had bothered him on his way.
He approached the inn from the back, his guess having been correct. As the rounded the corner to approach the entrance, he bumped into an Imperial soldier in shining steel armor. "My apologies..." he grumbled, keeping his eyes pinned to the ground.
The guard remained standing in the doorway, blocking the Orc's path. "Stop, citizen. State your business."
Dammit, thought Mul, how could he have recognized me? He looked up at the guard, who stared at him blankly. There was no light of recognition in his eyes, just an instinctive suspicion. His mind raced, this could be the solution to his problems. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me. My mother isn't feeling well, she's sitting in the shade behind the inn. I'm tired from our travels and am unable to carry her in myself."
The Imperial snorted derisively. "Your mother is none of my concern. Then again, I could use another round of mead…"
Mul smiled. "Sure, friend! Anything for a fellow soldier!" He led the hapless Imperial around to the back of the inn, safely hidden away from the road. The soldier looked around nervously.
'What is this, Orc? I'll have you clapped in irons if you don't…." His words were cut short as Mul wrapped his massive hand around his throat. His fingers nearly touched behind his neck.
The Imperial gurgled in protest, reaching for his sword. Mul grabbed the pommel with his free hand just as the guard reached it with his own. The Orc tightened his grip, feeling bones crack as he ripped the blade from its scabbard. He lifted the guard off the ground, slowly sliding the sword between the bones of his neck. He savored the moment as the light in the guard's eyes went out. He dismissively tossed the lifeless body to the ground before removing his weapons, armor, and misbegotten septims.
Mul donned the Imperial's gear, dragging his body into a nearby stream running from Lake Rumare. The fittings inside the armor had to be loosened to their maximum length, compromising some of the armor's integrity. It would serve his purposes until he could get a set of real Orcish armor.
"Fair enough," he muttered, taking a few practice swings with his new sword. Blades weren't his weapons of choice, but he was more than proficient with them. All types of combat had been drilled into his head since birth, as was only natural for the son of a warlord. He made his way back up the hill, hoping to avoid any more guards who might be more aware of his appearance. He may look out of place, but no citizen would dare challenge the authenticity of an Imperial soldier. If he ran into another legionnaire, however, that could be a different story.
Mul managed to slip into the inn, this time without being noticed. He swung the flimsy door open, trying his best to look confident. Sauntering up to the bar with all of the confidence to be expected of an Imperial soldier, he ordered enough food to keep him well fed on his way to Cheydinhal. Luckily, the bartender wasn't paying attention to her actions, monotonously scraping together the Orc's supplies. "I'll take a bed, too." he growled.
The Elven woman at the bar grunted an affirmative, motioning for him to pay. "That'll be 30 septims, sir". Mul handed over the bag of septims he had taken off the guard.
"Keep the change," he muttered. He scooped up his armload of food and drink, walking up to his room to prepare for his journey.
AN: Thanks for the continued support, everybody! It's definitely different to have an audience for my own work as opposed to co-authoring someone else's story. As always, reviews and PMs are much appreciated, and I'll see y'all next Sunday!