The air was frigid below the rest of the world; deep in the shadows of the castle dungeon and the burlap blanket his stone slab bed was clad in offered little respite from the bite of the chilled evening air. His third attempt at escape was futile, having been re-apprehended before finding his way in any direction closer to the surface. This night, the back of his left hand itched terribly...oh right...gone. The phantom pains and itches tugged at him even more in the night hours. The tears were of only momentary warmth as they fell fresh across his cheeks. He began to pray; surely God hadn't forsaken him, had he? The king would surely raise his charges to treason by this time.
Was there treason? In a way, yes, but when torture of the prisoners is commonplace and experiments by the "artisan" were as well, a man arrives at new conclusions about his loyalties and given that the newest experiment had been a "shining success", according to sources he knew and trusted, he made a calculated effort to leave Raul's Honor Guard. The first time he made it as far as the castle exit, and he lost 2 fingers for his trouble. The Artisan was tedious in his work and NEVER made short in his pursuits. Julien's screams made for a delicious lullaby, he was sure; and that, assuredly, cured any sort of second thoughts he might have had in his new life's mission.
The second time had taken him on a much longer galavant than he ever intended, but the end result was the same; the castle exit, and the rest of the fingers on his left hand, leaving only the palm. The Artisan, this time though, had promised that sooner or later he would return what he had taken, undoubtedly referring to his fingers and whatever came next.
He'd been in the king's service for many years up to his first attempt at flight; more than a dozen years of service in total, but the night of Prince Eric's birth, another task was being carried out...the selection. Only rumors circulated about the process. Terrible disfigurements and mutilations...nothing that a soldier would bat an eye at, that is, if it were on the battlefield. But this was NOT the battlefield or that kind of selection; this was perverse, this was savage, this was done to create something else. No good comes from the dark places and caverns spawning the kinds of nightmares emerging from the underbelly of the castle and Julien had been none the wiser as the barracks were nowhere near such places. That selection had been 18 years prior to now. It was that time again.
Selection was simple. The King's Throne would pick a prisoner and would begin taking pieces of them, bending their will and contorting their thoughts until what came out could barely be recognized, at least that was the understanding from those close to the depths of the dungeons. The screams were feral, horrifying, and left anyone anyone in proximity with a feeling of dread they could not fully describe, or ever recover from. To be clear, what was taken was always returned, but twisted and unnatural, using methods and magics that would turn a person against everything that was once familiar, contorting their senses. Physically, they were always altered, shifted, remade for whatever purpose was insisted upon when overlooking the Throne's ranks. In seeing the lack of a rogue; a nimble scout whose fine motor skills allowed for great potential in intelligence gathering and assassination, they once again looked into their dungeon supply and the last time Julien escaped, the Artisan made it clear he, Julien, had been selected.
In his cell, Julien cradled his now incomplete arm and drew from all his years to try and muster a plan to make his escape stick. From pickpockets to craftsmen to fullblown master spies, every last one had been captured and made to sit in the very dungeon he now found himself in. There was never any alarms as long as he could remember or any gallows on the castle grounds, leaving many to wonder whatever became of those who didn't return from the dungeons. A kingdom without a gallows or an alarm made for an uneasy climate to even attempt an escape mentally, much less being the first success under the reign of Raul Delvyn. Four straight days of silence was a first. It gave Julien a chance to think and to wonder.
No chains this time. What could they be thinking? He'd wrestled guards to the ground, even killed one to get away after begging for all he was worth for them to let him go. He'd even picked a guard's pocket once or twice to aid in his escape. But this time? He was beginning to think they WANTED him to get out this time, just to rationalize his full blown transformation, complete with whatever accessories they wanted to meld him with. Barbarians, every last one of them. He was just about to call it a night when the dinner guard came, carrying his daily ration of a chunk of hardtack, a few scraps of fatty meat, and some red beans. The guard stood at the door briefly, looking in at Julien before setting the plate down on the built in ledge at the door.
Julien groaned in soreness as his many bruises warned him against moving too quickly and the cuts broke open once more, allowing small drops of blood to gather in the gash trenches the whips and rods left behind. His resolve was never more certain and his mind was galvanized. This time would be the last time, one way or another, he would be on the Artisan's table. As he picked up the plate, he noticed something peculiar, adding to a chilling set of coincidences. Not only had he not been outfitted with chains or any other kind of bonds, he'd also been given flatware to use for his meals, and boots had been left for his feet, but unbeknownst to him for the four days up until this moment, his cell door wasn't locked.
Logic and tactical understanding would tell a person normally to avoid an obvious trap. This much Julien knew as well, so his plan MUST contain surprises the King could not know about. However, if he was to leave this place, it must be now. He might not get another shot. Evening was beginning to break and the changing of the castle guard would be coming up very soon, meaning that his window was fast closing. The dungeon in the castle Delvyn was laid out in such a way that only three paths existed, so far as he was aware the King knew of. What Julien McElroy knew that he had kept a secret for this moment was that he had seen one final path that wasn't on any plans or prints of any kind, leading into the caverns and the underground waterway beneath. Why hadn't he tried it before?
The first time, he HAD gone in the direction of said path before having his trespass cut off by another prisoner. The second time and the third he had given up entirely on it, believing it was a dead option; irony, it seems, moves in the same circles as coincidence, for the prisoners nearby had been moved only two days earlier without his knowledge.
Whatever the case whether trap or not, his presence went unnoticed in the corridors leading into the caverns. A false wall in a darkened corner led to an unmaintained stairwell and, once the wall had been pushed back from behind back into place, the cavernous stair was virtually pitch black. With each footfall, the temperature began to fall and, in stark contrast to his cell, this place was on the verge of freezing. The bottom of the stair opened into a literal cave, which gave rise to some residual light from below as light from the outdoors was visible from above? Surely this HAD to be a mistake, right?
The stone walls had been the norm near the beginning of the stair, but as the path wore on, it was replaced by bedrock and where the footpath began as chiseled stone with purpose, it grew more and more wild and meandering. Winding through tight paths and weaving bounders and previous cave ins, his path was cut nearly in half by a VERY small opening that forced Julien to crawl arm over arm. On the other end, there was an opening he could never have expected, but moreover, a sound had been getting nearer and nearer...rushing water. Delighted, he quickened his pace through the passage and was not disappointed. The cold breezes made Julien shiver and his breath was visible as he was finally able to stand fully and walk once more. He stepped closer to what appeared to be a giant cylinder with grating near the base and a small opening only barely visible beneath the rushing current of a waterway, which was well lit from above. He wondered how deep the water was as he came to the edge of the walkway leading to the cylinder and was VERY hesitant to jump in as he was absolutely certain the water was only a few degrees from freezing. So there he stood, looking in through the now visible grating of the cylinder and a set of bars on the opposite side. A thick rope and bucket were gently tapping against the bars. It was at that moment he KNEW where he was; the city square well, or rather just below.
In an excited burst of desperation, he jumped into the water, after having weighed out his other options and being content that those weren't of any consequence. The chill was very nearly paralyzing and his fingers on his remaining hand began to ache almost immediately. He dove beneath and grabbed at the opening, a medium sized stone gave way, allowing him to wriggle into the cylinder and he grasped the rope and bucket. The rope held resolutely and Julien began to climb. His muscles screamed in defiance and the climb was slow, but he WAS making progress in spite of his anguish. As he neared the top, he began to hear loud voices and cheers among other various conversations. It was the evening market. But how could that be? It was done away with years ago.
Each week in the fall months, the peasants in the surrounding villages would bring their wares into the the city walls for the weekend, selling to the squires, soldiers, and fellow peasants who had jobs within the city walls. Julien was filthy, mangled, and now, very exposed to the night air. He staggered to his feet, rushing through the crowd, begging for help. A few people in the crowd looked at him and recognized his face, and one offered a cloak and rushed him off the street into a warm residence.
Three cloaked men, who had been tending to the Julien worked hard to raise his core temperature but a fourth came in from the stairs from near the door, huffing and out of breath. "Seriously, guys," he began, pulling his hood back, hand tightly gripping his sword at his side. His hair was well kept and regal and he carried himself assuredly, but he stopped in his tracks.
Nearly and hour had passed and by all accounts, Julien had resigned to the idea that, incomplete as he was, he was now free, at least for the night. He laid back and tried to relax. It was only then that he began to hear rustling at the door. When the door flew open, a massive man walked through. "There you are." He pointed at Julien. Julien reached for one of the swords in his heroes' scabbard and turned it around.
"Damn your Artisan!" he yelled as he fell on the blade.
Was there treason? In a way, yes, but when torture of the prisoners is commonplace and experiments by the "artisan" were as well, a man arrives at new conclusions about his loyalties and given that the newest experiment had been a "shining success", according to sources he knew and trusted, he made a calculated effort to leave Raul's Honor Guard. The first time he made it as far as the castle exit, and he lost 2 fingers for his trouble. The Artisan was tedious in his work and NEVER made short in his pursuits. Julien's screams made for a delicious lullaby, he was sure; and that, assuredly, cured any sort of second thoughts he might have had in his new life's mission.
The second time had taken him on a much longer galavant than he ever intended, but the end result was the same; the castle exit, and the rest of the fingers on his left hand, leaving only the palm. The Artisan, this time though, had promised that sooner or later he would return what he had taken, undoubtedly referring to his fingers and whatever came next.
He'd been in the king's service for many years up to his first attempt at flight; more than a dozen years of service in total, but the night of Prince Eric's birth, another task was being carried out...the selection. Only rumors circulated about the process. Terrible disfigurements and mutilations...nothing that a soldier would bat an eye at, that is, if it were on the battlefield. But this was NOT the battlefield or that kind of selection; this was perverse, this was savage, this was done to create something else. No good comes from the dark places and caverns spawning the kinds of nightmares emerging from the underbelly of the castle and Julien had been none the wiser as the barracks were nowhere near such places. That selection had been 18 years prior to now. It was that time again.
Selection was simple. The King's Throne would pick a prisoner and would begin taking pieces of them, bending their will and contorting their thoughts until what came out could barely be recognized, at least that was the understanding from those close to the depths of the dungeons. The screams were feral, horrifying, and left anyone anyone in proximity with a feeling of dread they could not fully describe, or ever recover from. To be clear, what was taken was always returned, but twisted and unnatural, using methods and magics that would turn a person against everything that was once familiar, contorting their senses. Physically, they were always altered, shifted, remade for whatever purpose was insisted upon when overlooking the Throne's ranks. In seeing the lack of a rogue; a nimble scout whose fine motor skills allowed for great potential in intelligence gathering and assassination, they once again looked into their dungeon supply and the last time Julien escaped, the Artisan made it clear he, Julien, had been selected.
In his cell, Julien cradled his now incomplete arm and drew from all his years to try and muster a plan to make his escape stick. From pickpockets to craftsmen to fullblown master spies, every last one had been captured and made to sit in the very dungeon he now found himself in. There was never any alarms as long as he could remember or any gallows on the castle grounds, leaving many to wonder whatever became of those who didn't return from the dungeons. A kingdom without a gallows or an alarm made for an uneasy climate to even attempt an escape mentally, much less being the first success under the reign of Raul Delvyn. Four straight days of silence was a first. It gave Julien a chance to think and to wonder.
No chains this time. What could they be thinking? He'd wrestled guards to the ground, even killed one to get away after begging for all he was worth for them to let him go. He'd even picked a guard's pocket once or twice to aid in his escape. But this time? He was beginning to think they WANTED him to get out this time, just to rationalize his full blown transformation, complete with whatever accessories they wanted to meld him with. Barbarians, every last one of them. He was just about to call it a night when the dinner guard came, carrying his daily ration of a chunk of hardtack, a few scraps of fatty meat, and some red beans. The guard stood at the door briefly, looking in at Julien before setting the plate down on the built in ledge at the door.
Julien groaned in soreness as his many bruises warned him against moving too quickly and the cuts broke open once more, allowing small drops of blood to gather in the gash trenches the whips and rods left behind. His resolve was never more certain and his mind was galvanized. This time would be the last time, one way or another, he would be on the Artisan's table. As he picked up the plate, he noticed something peculiar, adding to a chilling set of coincidences. Not only had he not been outfitted with chains or any other kind of bonds, he'd also been given flatware to use for his meals, and boots had been left for his feet, but unbeknownst to him for the four days up until this moment, his cell door wasn't locked.
Logic and tactical understanding would tell a person normally to avoid an obvious trap. This much Julien knew as well, so his plan MUST contain surprises the King could not know about. However, if he was to leave this place, it must be now. He might not get another shot. Evening was beginning to break and the changing of the castle guard would be coming up very soon, meaning that his window was fast closing. The dungeon in the castle Delvyn was laid out in such a way that only three paths existed, so far as he was aware the King knew of. What Julien McElroy knew that he had kept a secret for this moment was that he had seen one final path that wasn't on any plans or prints of any kind, leading into the caverns and the underground waterway beneath. Why hadn't he tried it before?
The first time, he HAD gone in the direction of said path before having his trespass cut off by another prisoner. The second time and the third he had given up entirely on it, believing it was a dead option; irony, it seems, moves in the same circles as coincidence, for the prisoners nearby had been moved only two days earlier without his knowledge.
Whatever the case whether trap or not, his presence went unnoticed in the corridors leading into the caverns. A false wall in a darkened corner led to an unmaintained stairwell and, once the wall had been pushed back from behind back into place, the cavernous stair was virtually pitch black. With each footfall, the temperature began to fall and, in stark contrast to his cell, this place was on the verge of freezing. The bottom of the stair opened into a literal cave, which gave rise to some residual light from below as light from the outdoors was visible from above? Surely this HAD to be a mistake, right?
The stone walls had been the norm near the beginning of the stair, but as the path wore on, it was replaced by bedrock and where the footpath began as chiseled stone with purpose, it grew more and more wild and meandering. Winding through tight paths and weaving bounders and previous cave ins, his path was cut nearly in half by a VERY small opening that forced Julien to crawl arm over arm. On the other end, there was an opening he could never have expected, but moreover, a sound had been getting nearer and nearer...rushing water. Delighted, he quickened his pace through the passage and was not disappointed. The cold breezes made Julien shiver and his breath was visible as he was finally able to stand fully and walk once more. He stepped closer to what appeared to be a giant cylinder with grating near the base and a small opening only barely visible beneath the rushing current of a waterway, which was well lit from above. He wondered how deep the water was as he came to the edge of the walkway leading to the cylinder and was VERY hesitant to jump in as he was absolutely certain the water was only a few degrees from freezing. So there he stood, looking in through the now visible grating of the cylinder and a set of bars on the opposite side. A thick rope and bucket were gently tapping against the bars. It was at that moment he KNEW where he was; the city square well, or rather just below.
In an excited burst of desperation, he jumped into the water, after having weighed out his other options and being content that those weren't of any consequence. The chill was very nearly paralyzing and his fingers on his remaining hand began to ache almost immediately. He dove beneath and grabbed at the opening, a medium sized stone gave way, allowing him to wriggle into the cylinder and he grasped the rope and bucket. The rope held resolutely and Julien began to climb. His muscles screamed in defiance and the climb was slow, but he WAS making progress in spite of his anguish. As he neared the top, he began to hear loud voices and cheers among other various conversations. It was the evening market. But how could that be? It was done away with years ago.
Each week in the fall months, the peasants in the surrounding villages would bring their wares into the the city walls for the weekend, selling to the squires, soldiers, and fellow peasants who had jobs within the city walls. Julien was filthy, mangled, and now, very exposed to the night air. He staggered to his feet, rushing through the crowd, begging for help. A few people in the crowd looked at him and recognized his face, and one offered a cloak and rushed him off the street into a warm residence.
Three cloaked men, who had been tending to the Julien worked hard to raise his core temperature but a fourth came in from the stairs from near the door, huffing and out of breath. "Seriously, guys," he began, pulling his hood back, hand tightly gripping his sword at his side. His hair was well kept and regal and he carried himself assuredly, but he stopped in his tracks.
Nearly and hour had passed and by all accounts, Julien had resigned to the idea that, incomplete as he was, he was now free, at least for the night. He laid back and tried to relax. It was only then that he began to hear rustling at the door. When the door flew open, a massive man walked through. "There you are." He pointed at Julien. Julien reached for one of the swords in his heroes' scabbard and turned it around.
"Damn your Artisan!" he yelled as he fell on the blade.
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