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“At least we had dinner already,” Elf said leaning against the wall. He looked at Jak on a short pile of straw. “Remember the bowl of gruel they had here the last time? It tasted wretched.”
“That wasn't gruel,” Jak blandly stated from the floor. “That’s why I didn’t have any.”
Elf went into one of his thinking moments. The end result was a mixture of embarrassment and sickness. The moments passed as his eyes danced about their shady surroundings. Elf leaned over at a half-whisper, “What was it then?”
Jak’s head was buried under his cloak. He kept only a small opening towards the cell across the walkway. Jak’s eyes had been silently studying their two attackers. As his name indicates, Elf had some Elven blood. Jak’s lineage was less diverse and did not grant keener eyesight in such dim setting. He scratched at his bruised ribs only half-aware that his cellmate said something.
Ample torchlight was a luxury seldom found in dungeons. Still, Jak sat staring at the stirring shadows in the other cell. Dirt and grime were grinding between soft leather and the stone floor. The low murmurs and moans barely rose above the rats sharpening their teeth.
“What kind of spell was it?” Jak muffled from under his shroud, “the one she cast on me.”
Elf glanced at the hollow steps drawing Jak’s attention. He slid down the wall next to Jak. “I don’t know,” he whispered softly. “I didn't even see her cast it. It must have been some kind of charm magic. What was it like?”
The two shadows whispered something in the dark for a moment. The walls seemed to swallow most of the conversation. All went silent again. “I knew there was something wrong the whole time,” Jak whispered. “Her eyes didn't look right. I kept staring at them.” Jak lowered his voice further to keep the walls from hearing. “I felt like…only a few more seconds. A few more seconds and I would know why. The feeling only got stronger the longer I stared.”
“That…is sick!” Elf’s voice bounced off the walls. “Why would someone put that in a bowl?” Jak turned to the vague ash outline of Elf’s face. Jak understood the sudden shift in demeanor.
“Well now you know,” Jak played along. He tried not to grin, just in case their neighbors could pierce the darkness better than he could.
***
The half-elf watched his companion pace back & forth in the small cell. She took tiny steps, unsure of how far she could wander within her confined area. She was also unsure of what her boundaries had growing on them and crossed her arms to keep from accidental investigation.
“You know, Pridg,” he said from under his hood, “if you just clean a spot on the floor, you can sit down.”
The darkness lay too thick for her to connect a reprimanding gaze. She glared at the darkness, nonetheless. Her calf-high boots scuffed the loose dirt atop the stones. “Do you think she’s playing for time?”
He shrugged the darkness off his shoulders. His eyes looked towards her and surveyed the other cells. His lips twitched, but decided on other words, “I don’t think it matters now,” he sighed. “We’re in here. She’s out there. It’s not a thing here we can do, not without trouble again.”
“They deserved it, though,” she retorted. “You saw what happened to those peasants. I was planning on waking up. There was no knowing if we would with them in the same cell. They practically confessed last time.”
“Pridget, just relax this time.” His words had a steel sternness. "We got lucky last time." He added softly, “Please.” He glanced up at her hugging herself.
Pridget’s hair coiled in the thick air. She produced a small ribbon from the unseen recesses of her garments and began a frustrated braid. A professional rope-maker would have instantly recognized that sound in the dark and scoffed at the poor handling of such quality material.
“It doesn't figure. Who else could be looking for it?” her voice cut through the air. The rest of the jail went still. Even the invisible scattering of muck designs on the walls allowed her voice to crisply carry. Her voice lowered again. “Why else would anyone be looking for it?”
“People do strange things in strange times,” the swordsman replied. "We're not the first ones in town to notice it." He pulled back his cowl and looked across at their neighbors. He wasn't too surprised when he locked eyes with the other half-elf. He wasn't as surprised as Elf’s eyes were.
“That’s sick,” a voice cried. “Why would someone put that in a bowl?” Elf's voice would have been convincing enough on its own. His eyes just didn't match the enthusiasm. The swordsman leered at him.
“Oh, Lady of Flame,” Pridget trembled with disgust. “Give me strength.” Her companion watched as she covered her mouth. Her other hand held onto the half braided knot. She managed to compose herself. The air made it slightly harder. The stench felt damp on her skin. That only made focusing harder, or trying to focus. It’s hard convincing someone to think of a cool breeze while sitting in a sweat lodge.
“It’s not that bad,” he said with a slight smirk. “The perfumes on your cloak will keep the moisture out. Try to sit down before you fall down.”
Pridget eventually conceded. She removed her cloak, folding it lengthwise on the floor. Carefully making out the edges of her filth barrier, she sat down. The stretch of cloth gave little solace as she hugged her knees.
***
Ralph felt around the bars and stone. As a military scout, he prided himself on noticing the finest of details. His instincts, however, had always fared on the safer course of action. To this end, he noticed as much about the enemy from outside the striking distance of a trebuchet. Capture was not an experience he possessed. It was also not one that he wished to get accustomed to.
“You can do something besides lay there,” Ralph didn't bother to glance too long behind him. He was vaguely aware the guards had tossed someone in the cell with him. The small individual lay on the floor in plain breeches, a bright tan vest, and a freshly crumpled hat.
“I’m fine thanks," Migi replied. "just a little dry. Wouldn't have a cup of tea, would you? A few crackers would do me right.” Migi wasn't exactly in the merriest of moods after the last day and a half. This week had been busier than most. He’d been beaten, captured, robbed, chased, followed, robbed again, mauled, blown across a room into a liquor shelve (the kind with glass bottles of spirits and liquor, not wooden casks), and thrown in jail. The excitement exhausted his ambitions to move further.
“These locks are old enough,” Ralph scratched loose pieces of rust away with his fingers. “We can get them open. I only need something to work the lock. Do you have anything I can use?” Ralph’s voice almost rose above a whisper. It was hard for him not to get excited. He had ambition.
Migi always got ahead by thinking ahead. Planning saved him time and time again. Ralph seemed to live more, moment to moment, and it showed. He was like a kid at a carnival with attention swiftly changing from side-to-side. The only thing that kept his head from rapidly falling off, Migi figured, was the lack of substance making it extremely light.
Ralph’s Plan seemed simple enough: Spring the lock. Walk down the passage past the cell with the sorceress that attacked them. Open the guarded, most likely locked, door to the jailer’s office. Sneak past at least five armed guards. More likely, have to fight them without any weapons. The likely result: death, or back in the cell after adequate pummeling. It wasn't a perfect plan. Indeed, it had several visible and apparent flaws.
Migi’s concocted his own plan with a number of unknowns, but requiring far less effort: Wait until morning. Talk with the guild representative. Chance getting bailed out from prison. The end result: release from prison or charged with…with being blindly attacked in a tavern. The worst penalty was a minor fine either way. Migi only had to survive the night with cat woman in the cage next door. He could worry about the troll when he came to that bridge. The morning hours would be far enough away to prepare.
Migi left his fetal position searching around his waist belt. “Would something like this help?” Ralph turned and groped in the darkness for Migi’s hand. He held something small with two flat circles. A thin collapsible metal rod attached to each side.
“What is this?” asked Ralph. There was a small snap. A small shard rang lightly as it hit the floor. “Oh,” Ralph shrugged and eagerly went to lock. “These might work.”
Ralph was perfect in every aspect. He preferred carving his own destiny. Migi remembered betting someone to try lighting a candle in a bonfire. The man won. He lit the candle, along with his beard, and his arm. Ralph didn't need the same amount of liquid courage. Some people just needed a certain level of adrenaline and ignorance regarding the rest of the world. Ralph, unfortunately, would have to serve as an example for others.
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