Chapter 33

It takes Cael a while to ready himself for his nocturnal mission. He spends his time reversing the disguise he's worn for the last week; for one thing, he'd be less easily recognisable by the guards. Besides, it was doubtful that he'd run into anyone that would recognise him in the city during the short time he'd be out. He'd try to bluff his way past the guards; he still had his old robes -- a little worse for wear, but there was little he could do about that.

Bluff his way in as a priest, sent to collect the wagon, rescue the books and dump the wagon somewheres else to confuse any pursuit. It's a simple plan, but that means there's less that could go wrong.

In retrospect, it was too easy. If Cael had been less nervous, he would have noticed that his plan went too smoothly. No one questioned his threadbare robes, or even the quickly flashed letter that prominantly showed the Patriarch's seal upon it (Cael had borrowed one of the forged papers that had gotten the group this far), and Cael was soon watching as several of the guardsmen worked to reattach the wagon to its draft horse.

Just as the two guardsmen were finishing up, and Cael was preparing to be on his way, a voice behind him spoke up, filling him with dread. ::Hello, Cael. It's been awhile, hasn't it?::

Cael slowly turned. ::Hello, Falliq.:: The newcomer looked the part fo a typical Ehosian priest; colorful robes, rune-carved walking staff, and slight sneer. Now Cael's plans switched from recovering the books to mere survival. ::You seem to have done alright for yourself. An inquisitor now, it seems.:: Cael's hands itched, and he mentally started to run through a protection spell.

::Oh, and I have you to thank for that, Cael. I've rooted out more than one enemy of the church in my search for you. But now, that search is over.:: Falliq raised his hands and started to chant.

Damn! Cael quickly started to chant his own spell, weaving protective magics between him and Falliq. He was so intent on protecting himself from Falliq's magic, he forgot about the two guardsmen still working on the cart. One of them grabbed up his club and slipped in behind the young priest. Crump! A swing of the club later, and Cael slowly crumpled to the ground, his protective magics dissipating. Falliq lowered his hand, allowing the magical energies he built up to dissipate, as well. ::He is still alive?::

The guardsman nodded. ::Yes, Lightbringer.:: Falliq smiled. ::Good.::

Cael slowly regains consciousness. He is first aware of a headache: a large, angry headache. Then, the dark. Sundown already?

Then the memories of Falliq flood back in. On reflex, he jerks up and opens his eyes.

Click-clang. One arm is manacled to the wall by a length of chain. Both of his hands have been tightly wrapped in rags, a standard precaution to keep heretics and heathens from calling on demonic assistance with their spells.

Cael also notices that he shares the cell with another. Similarly manacled and mittened, the lean figure is hard to define bundled up as he is in the mix of home spun browns cloth and leather tunic. The man's dark brown hair, visible above his well-worn cloak, might argue for Ehosian blood, but his skin was far, far too pale. His leaf-green eyes watch Cael carefully. Actually, his coloring rather puts Cael in mind of Falling Leaf. The lines of the man's face put him somewhere in his thirities, boyish but weathered.

[Editor's Note: "Aaron's" posts were rarely in complete sentences, although his use of imagery is usually very fine. Not wishing to rewrite his every word, I leave his posts unedited.]

'There are some days it just does not pay to get out of bed', Aaron thinks grumpily to himself. Glimmering green eyes assessing the environs that he has awakened to. Muscles aching from the awkward pose he woke up to. Rolling about in his sleep and having stretched his arm into a painful angle. Keeping half an eye on his fellow prison guest, Aaron flicks his gaze around the cell. Studying the solidity of the door and how well the manacles are holding him.

The shift of his head moveing his features more into the dim light. A faint tracery of an indecipherable script, runic, is etched into the leather of his tunic, as is a deceptively simple runic design worked in and around his eye. A leather band holds back his length of brown hair from falling into his eyes.

The sharp pain in the back of his head, and the lump he puts his hand too a reminder of being wary of strange lands and even stranger customs. The Craft of Runecasting has many uses, in this case it was the fortune telling aspect that caught him out. How was he to know that the locals were that excitable? His gift speaks what it will not what he commands. The castings are not predictable, nor always popular as was this last case. Nor would he stoop to casting a rune and telling it for anything other than it is. Some just cannot take the truth. It wasn't HIS fault that the guardsman's wife is cheating.

The subsequent row and cries of heretic causeing quite a stir. Not to mention a fair amount of damage to the tavern he had found his way into. Not being a man that is brought down easy. Above average in height, due to the mix of blood from his sea-ravening forefathers. A fearsome warrior people. Making a fair acount of himself, but as versed in the blade as the runecaster profession of neccesity is, not able to face a whole mob out on a witch hunt. Sheer weight of numbers bringing him down.

Aaron turns his full attention to the manacle holding him. Searching for the eubiquitous weak link. Not wasteing his time with futile tugging. Instead seeing how the mass of links is constructed, and how exactly its bolted to the wall, as well as his wrists.

Soon comeing to notice that the manacle is the least of his worries. His subsequent lodgings making it clear that he would be deprived of weapons which is not so serious. His missing Rune pouch is another matter however. Any leavetakeing of this not so hospitable cell must take into account getting that pouch BACK. The possibility of a storage place for prisoner items his main consideraton. Not that he couldnt make another pouch, but the Rune's within are carefully crafted, each one, from his life's expereicnes. In a way, each one is a symbolic piece of him.

The chain rattles as he drags himself up to a crouch. Resting on his haunches. Even in this crouch his horizon filling frame is evident. Taller than average, close to six feet. The lines of his face and the ready alert pose telling a travelers tale. The lean build of a fighter or even a gladiator, but the alert intelligence in the eyes speaks of a deeper story.

The situation is not as hopeless as it seems. First things first though. The nice thing about chains... is that they make a good weapon. Wraping a few lengths around his bound wrists, he braces and pulls on the chain in an attempt to free it from the wall...

Cael winces as he jerks upright, as pain in his ribs mingles with the thriobbing of his head. Ow! Oh, Eho... feels like they put the boot in a couple of times while I was out. He gingerly rubs his side, trying to feel the extent of the injury. Well, it doesn't feel like ribs are cracked. Thank Eho for small favors. With his own injuries checked out, Cael watchs his temporary roommate as he comes to, and his subsequent escape attempt. Damn, he looks strong enough, he might be able to work that chain from the stone, but not before he draws the guards down upon us.

The man's apparent search for some belonging before he started yanking at his chains stirred Cael's thoughts. He checks his chest, and discovers what he's looking for. My holy symbol! They didn't take it! Whether by accident, arrogance, or what have you, the guards had neglected to strip the symbol of Eho from Cael's neck. Perhaps they thought it would provide the heretic nothing, since a heretic obviously could not draw on Eho's divine powers, or that it would damn him that much more in the eyes of the Church. Whatever the reason, it cheers Cael immensely. Now, if I can only get these rags from my hands.

Well, time to get my friend here involved. "Sir," He said, trying to get his fellow heretic's attention. "You'll only draw their attention yanking on those chains."

After manfully tugging on the think manicles and links for an intermitent time, acomplishing not much more than turning himself a hue of purple that is not natural to even his exotic background, Aaron leaves go the pressure of his pull and stands up straight again. "You're probably right. I just don't like being shackled," he says in a deep soft, rumble, "Reminds me too of my first wife, Wotan keep her." The shieldmaiden having a proper warrior's ending. The spear that was meant for him, impaled through her heart and just inches from his own. The valkyrie were sure to take her as one of their honoured.

Since the chain is too firmly seated in the wall. The next possibility is to look at the way the adjoining manacles are fastened. The swaddle of bandages covering up the chain itself. "Got anything sharp on ya?" Aarron says, raising an inquireing eyebrow? Being real subtle in his own approach, he procceds to chew through the cloth.

"Sharp? Hmmm...." Cael quickly searches himself for anything that might be able to cut the rags from their hands. Nothing. The guards took everything. Except... Cael had once visited the shore of Ehosia when he was young; a vacation with his family that turned disasterous. Cael had found out first hand how sharp the seashells were when he had inadvertantly cut his foot on a broken one; a cut bad enough to require one of the priests to heal it. The same priest who sensed something in Cael and claimed him for the priesthood himself.

Cael stared down at the holy symbol on his chest; a piece of the pink pearl Ehoisa's so famous for, edged in gold, to protect the wearer from sharp edges. Oh, Eho forgive me.

"I might have something. Give me a moment." Clumsily gripping the medallion betweeen both bound hands, he chews at the gold edge of the holy symbol, trying to expose a sharp edge.

Aaron gamely continues to chew. The trick being to unravel the cloth a thread at a time. Catching the edges of the cloth and scissoring through the rough strands. He smiles slighty as he chews away. Thinking of the lovely wench Elana, who had a corset that was just as tough to chew through. It's amazing what the right kind of motivation will allow you to acomplish. Not wanting to stay around for the locals questionable brand of justice. He hadn't killed any of the Guard. No sense in permanently maiming anyone for just doing their job. Some of them will wake up with some nasty head aches though. He used the flat of the blade.

"If I had my Runepouch this would be much easier" Aaron mutters. Having a Rune for Opening Ways and Locked Doors. It would need to be carved on the manacle itself to do much good though. Anything sharp would do to carve it into the manacle...

Examining again how the manacles are joined. Thinking about levers and leverage. Not a massively physiqued form, but the size of his arms clearly showing that he has wielded something more than a kitchen knife. Thinking perhaps he could try and snap the manicles.. Looking about for some kind of lever...

Cael pauses with his attempt to free the disk of shell from his holy symbol when he hears Gideon mutter. Runepouch? Runes? Cael looks down at his amulet, the gold half scraped away on one side of it. If he need something to carve rune symbols, this won't work. Unless I break it in half. And that would be very bad. Cael casts his eye around him, looking in the straw he sat on for some sort of sharp item; a nail, a bit of metal, anything.

He pauses in his search when another voice issues out of the darkness, pleading for his own release. Luckily, this one had enough sense not to yell out. Cael whispered back to him, "Good sir, do you perhaps have anyhting to scratch metal with? A nail perhaps?"

The voice from the next cell answers. "Why sure, here I managed to steal a spoon from my last meal. I tried to pick the lock with it but all I managed to do was bend the spoon into a knot" There is a sound of a piece of metal scraping along the stone from out of the ajoining cell "I don't think anyone will ever be able to eat with it again, but if you can use it can free us, then by all means"

Cael catches the spoon before it makes too much noise on the stone floor. Cael doesn't even question the fact that the guards gave a prisoner a potential escape tool. In a water poor area such as Ehosia, wood utensils were something that only the wealthy were able to afford, and prisoners got the cheap stuff, like this brass spoon. This bent all to hell brass spoon. Guess the 'neighbor' wasn't kidding about trying to pick the lock.

Straining to the end of his chain, Cael is just able to push the spoon within reach of Aaron. "Here," he whispers, "will that work for your carving?"

Aaron accepts the batterd eating instrument with a dubious expression. "I hope the material of these shackles is at least soft enough to hold a carving." Trying to manuver his wrists in a direction not meant for solid bone.

It's not going to be easy, 'he reflects, trying to bend his wrists. The obivous solution being to free his companion first. "Hold your hands steady and lock your arms. I need some leverage to apply some pressure." Concentrating on the shape of the rune in his mind. Closing his eyes and calling the glowing script to mind. Easier, he ponders, with his Runepouch to hand. But for a simple lock.

Pressing the crude instrument into the metal of the shackles. The shape of the letter flowing out from his soul and useing the media of his hands to express the guideing stroke of the rune of the unrestricted path and unlocked way. A soft pale green glow follows the stroke of the gougeing cut of the spoon. Not enough to leave more than a scrape. But enought to complete the lines of the rune of power...

Like the effect of the simple knock spell. The ancient magical language, given to his people by the All Father Wotan, courses through the metal. Tingling Cael's arms. The click of an opening lock and Aarron's quite voice saying, "Catch those before it makes too much noise" refering to the shackles, the only sounds in the cell...

The chains clink softly as Cael catches the now opened manacles in his still half wrapped hands. Deftly, he uses the manacles to help him remove the remaining rags, at the same time wraps the rags around the manacles to minimize noise. Once free of the rags, he quietly lays the manacles down in the straw, then clenches and unclenches his hands to regain feeling in them.

"Now, for you." Cael approaches the runecarver. "Maybe with both our strength, we can get these chains loose from the wall. Or," Cael looks at the man's hand holding the spoon, "can you work that so you can carve on your manacle?"

"I don't think so. That flexible I am not. Much to the disapointment of the Contessa Ravens." Getting a good grip on the chain attached to the wall. "I think the most expedient thing would be to just pull this out of the wall" Cael watches as Aaron clanks over to the wall where the chain is fastened where he then proceeds to commence an intent scrutiny of the way it is fastened.

The wall being solidly built and evidently unwilling to loosen what the constructors have intended it to hold fast. Nevertheless Aaron soon has that creative flash that is so common amoung the desperate or the soon to be married. Both working under the same tight premise. To escape their fate.

Instead of making a load of noise and ripping large holes in the architecture, the trick being to avoid detection untill too late. (wise advice to the man or woman who wants to make a silent exit from the steel trap of a wedding) Aaron comes up with an elagent solution. "IS there not a way to either soften the metal attached to the wall? Or perhaps the earth around it?"

Priests often have strange powers, the command over the elements being one of the more spoken of. Perhaps heating the metal..or turning the earth to sand as he saw one of the priestesses of Freya acomplish...