Severance

The water dripped on the floor into a stony depression. Slowly. Steadily.

Drip.

It was the only sound that permeated the darkness of the cell.

Drip.

A faint, flickering light was hinted at, through the bars of the cell door. It was the only light with which to see by. Rats squeaked their rodent language to each other from within black corners, gnawing on this bone or that.

Drip.

The cell was designed to hold many prisoners. Chains and manacles hung from the various stone bricked pillars that supported the roof. Currently only one prisoner resided here though.

Drip.

He sat chained to one of the pillars, knees brought up to his chest. His head was bowed forward and his features were hidden behind the shadows, his thick neard and his hair, which hung down past his ears.

Drip.

The prisoner glanced at the cell door from beneath bushy eyebrows. He still wore a good pair of leather boots, travelling clothes, and a thick woolen cloak that could cover most of his body if needed. His clothes were shades of brown.

Despite his warm clothes, he shivered.

Drip.

How long he had been captive, he did not know. What he did know, though, was that death would be soon approaching. It was not from starvation or even thirst from which death loomed. It was the fact that his captors did not keep prisoners alive for long.

Drip.

Hence the almost empty cell. Each drip seemed to herald one step closer to the end of his life. The prisoner pondered his situation as time passed.

Drip.

...

Drip.

...

Drip.

He had considered escape but there were several problems. Firstly he was chained to the stone pillar and had not the strength to forcibly free himself. Secondly, even if he could of freed himself from the chains, there was still the matter of the locked door.

Drip.

Perhaps when the turnkey unlocked the door and came inside, there may be a small chance of overpowering him and escaping then. A small chance of freedom was better than no chance at all.

Drip.

Yes, this was his best chance of escape. The likelyhood was that he would die in the attempt, or at the very least fail, but he had to try.

Drip.

Time passed as he discarded scenario after scenario. When would be the best time to strike? Should he feign illness, tiredness or weakness? If he stayed here for many more days, he wouldn't have to worry about feigning anything. It would be all too real.

Drip.

...

Drip.

...

Drip.

He started to slumber, eyes slowly closing as his mind wandered and walked free, even as his body couldn't. The face of a beautiful woman came to him - his lover. Whispers of the battles he'd fought came and passed. A blackness came over him, the moment of his capture.

His eyes opened suddenly to the sound of a key turning in the door. His gaze was riveted on the door, willing it to open.

Drip.

The door swung open and a shadowy figure loomed in the entrance. Good, the turnkey was alone. This is it!
SDuWarriorInf SDuWarriorInf
36-40, M
1 Response May 17, 2012

Very good, can't wait to read the other part :)