< Out of the Soulsteel Pan, Into The Ghostflame | Sol Invictus Logs | It Wouldn't Have Been Enough >
The three bodies chained to the wall are a little difficult to make out any details on -- none are dressed particularly notably, and all are far enough into decomposition that their features are unclear. (...)
The two living persons, however, are not particularly difficult to make out: one, an older man with olive skin, clad in a high-ranking military uniform that Varanim does not recognize, with what appears to be a deep purple cutlass-daiklave at his side; (...)
the other, a young woman, strawberry blonde hair falling well past her shoulders, a tiny silver chain worn around her neck and a fine gown, tattered with dirt and blood -- though Varanim can also see the hidden ankle holster holding a vicious knife. (...)
Both remain solidly asleep or unconscious at the moment.
Varanim rattles her chains experimentally.
There is no reaction.
Varanim "I specifically recall tunnels and a longish plunge underground," she muses to herself as she pulls a little harder, inspecting the fastenings. "None of this tower business."
The chains appear to be nothing more than your basic heavy wrought-iron chains, attached to the wall with nice, mundane iron bolts -- no apparent magic or other fancy forms of restraint whatsoever.
Varanim looks at the bolts with mild disgust, as if silently reproaching them for making her do this the hard way. Then she cranes her neck over to bite the side of her left hand, savagely, until blood runs and slicks her skin. (...)
Varanim "I hate this," she mutters, and jerks the hand sharply, dislocating the thumb to pull her hand out through the cuff.
Varanim's hand painfully and brutally reshapes itself to squeeze through the cuff. She feels her thumb pop out, her handbones strain and possibly hairline fracture, several layers of skin peeled off the outside of her hand -- but after a moment of severe pain, her hand is indeed free from the cuff.
Varanim grunts sharply and breathes hard for several seconds, some corner of her brain mentally cataloging the injury. When her vision has cleared she fumbles with the free hand at her belt, planning to use her knife to lever the other cuff open.
Once she has a free hand and a knife to work with, the other cuff offers little resistance, and in a moment she finds herself completely free of the wall.
As she frees herself from the final restraints, the individuals chained to the far wall begin to come to. "Uuuuuuuuungh," says the woman.
Varanim Cutting off a strip from the bottom of her robe, Varanim makes a face at the filthy fabric and then uses it to bind her hand anyway, going over to get a better look out the window--then turning back as the others stir.
Varanim "Whose tower is this?"
Varanim After a momentary pause in which she realizes she should care, "Who are you?"
As the man comes around -- she notices as he looks up that he has an odd scar running across the left side of his face -- he looks up at her with an angry look. "Who are YOU?"
Varanim "I asked first," Varanim says, tilting her head to examine his scar. "And unless you can break yourself out, it's important that you convince me to bother."
The woman woozily lifts her head, shakes it quickly, and looks up at the individual towering over her. "Jena Roderick," she says. "Can you do something about these?" She gestures helpfully with her eyes towards the shackles.
Varanim "Mm," Varanim says, visibly less interested in that already solved question. She pulls her knife back out with her good hand, though, and sets to it. "Our host...?" she prompts helpfully.
The man wakes up more, looks out the window, and groans loudly. "We are in the Thousand," he says.
Varanim "Thousand what? Yard stare, acre wood...?"
Varanim "Wait, that one was a hundred." Varanim checks for injuries as she works at the chains.
The man blinks. "The Thousand. The First and Forsaken Lion's fortress." He sounds even more irritated now. (...)
Jena is bleeding -- albeit slowly -- from several not insignificant (but non life-threatening) blade slashes, while the man appears mostly to be suffering from bruising, of both body and ego.
Varanim "Keep going until I start nodding," she suggests, switching to his chains. "Keep glaring, I suppose, if it helps you talk."
Jena starts to stand up, stumbles a little, and then leans against the wall. "Why are we here?"
The man shakes his head. "A deathlord. A powerful ghost who rules an empire in the Underworld. What are you even doing here if you don't know these things?" He stands up once the chains are released, without the slightest sign of thanks. "We're here because he wants something from us that's more difficult to get if we're dead."
Varanim "Isn't it obvious? I'm working for the elk barbarians." Varanim inspects his uniform, then nods. "You're least filthy--why not make yourself useful and cut a couple of bandages for Jena, here?"
Varanim "And what does an empire-ruling ghost want from you, anyway?"
The man glares at her for a moment, then grudgingly begins tearing some strips of fabric as he mutters under his breath.
"I'm Tyrian. I'm here either because the Lion double-crossed me or because my bosses sold me out." He hands the bandages he'd torn to her. "Now are you finally going to tell me who /you/ are?"
Varanim "Oh," she says, looking a little surprised. "I'm Varanim, and I'm here because I fell into a strikingly disgusting pit. Then there's sort of a long blank spot I'm intensely curious about." She sets to binding the worst of Jena's wounds.
Varanim "I can only assume there's some sort of amusing mistaken identity thing happening, unless this First and Forsaken Lion has a deep hatred of elks and all who serve them."
Jena grunts a little at the pain of having her wounds bound, but does not otherwise react. "Elks?," Tyrian says, though he does not seem to actually be particularly interested in the answer.
Once Jena is bound up, she makes an effort to stand again, this time succeeding. She looks around the room only briefly before gazing straight at the door. "We need to get out of here."
Varanim "Wouldn't it be lovely if we had some strapping angry fellow with a great big sword, now." Reminded, Varanim looks around for her staff, wondering if she left it in the Labyrinth.
Unfortunately, her staff is nowhere to be seen.
< Out of the Soulsteel Pan, Into The Ghostflame | Sol Invictus Logs | It Wouldn't Have Been Enough >
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