The first thought that comes to me is pretty wierd.
I am Elynor von Lindenburg. Daughter of Karl von Lindenburg and Camilla von Rhineburg. I am a noble, or at least I used to be. Right this second though, I don't feel privileged, I most certainly do not feel fine and proper. It hurts. My body screams at me.
I slowly open my eyes and... Nothing. Ooh nevermind, It's just very blurry. Wait, I am blindfolded. Again. I hate blindfolds.
Pain. Fuck that hurts. I am shackled? Oh no no no no this isn't happening. Am I having a nightmare? Ugh, it hurts too much for a nightmare, even mine.
I feel around my wrists and what do you know, shackles, big ones, I'll never break em. Feels like cast iron. Crap. Okay, do not panic. Or just a little, it's healthy, keeps me alert.
Yep, I ain't at the Manor anymore. I must say, however, the thought of a knight officer in shining white uniform carrying a rapier and a flintshot rescuing me like in the novels would be nice, right about now. Like right now. Well fuck. Fuck. That's right, I am swearing. How unproper of a young noble lady. Well fuck you too, me.
And fuck that knight. I wouldn't marry a rich boy with a gun expecting a kiss anyway. That would go downhill oh so very fast. And after rescuing me he'd see my left arm and he'd be disgusted by the "prosthetic".
Ooh boy. Thoughts are really going nowhere right now. Focus a little Ely.
Now then, where the hells am I?
First I'll see if there's anything else in the room. At least I know I'm inside a building somewhere, there's no wind blowing or smoke smells. It smells like.. Oh no, blood. And feces. OH Gods, I fucking pissed my breeches. Well, they've seen worse. But come on, I didn't piss myself since I was 4. Ugh. Disgusting. I feel like hurling as my stomach learns sailor ropeworks.
I feel around the chain, going to the full length, seems like I have a few meters of leeway to move around.
Now if only my wrists weren't shackled together. Oh well, time to check out what's around me. Focus on what I can do and act after thinking.
I follow the walls, crawling on cold stone, with dusty cement between the blocks, probably very old; at some point, when the chains are almost fully taut, I feel an iron grate. Welp, as expected, I'm in a fucking cell.
I try to find a keyhole, but it turns out there's none. Can't pick the lock. Pick the l- Oh come on Ely you're smarter than this.
I must be more tired and hurt than I thought, how did I not think of picking the locks of my chains? It's not like I have an automaton hand on my wrist. But you do, dummy! Wake up. Guess I'll try it out. Extend the pinkie finger, and think hard.
Lockpick, Lockpick, Lockpick, lockpick.. Ah I feel a headache coming, but the usual small emanation of steam and whirring of gears happen.
I can picture in my mind my left pinkie opening, like a small brass cucumber sliced lengthwise, revealing a small spike and a long hook extending from the base of the finger, the later just below the former.
After a few minutes of clicking metallic noise I finally find the the keyhole, and I go to town. Just like grandpa said "If you want to pick a lock, don't. It's annoying. But if you have to, take your time, pin by pin, and for the love of god do not shake the tools randomly." This lock must be as rusty as the shack I was residing recently, the pins are really getting stuck.
Speaking of which. While I attempt to do with muscle memory, or, I guess it's gears memory for me, how the hell did I arrive here? I remember the meeting, and getting me the hideout adress by tracking the delivery boy, and then it's a blur.
Suddenly, Success! The shackle opens up and clangs noisily on the floor. Good. Ah, massaging the wrist feels good, got blood in my fingers again.
Fuck you blindfold! Ha-ha! I can see again! Well, it's really dark in here anywa- is that a skeleton? EW. Never liked the things, even when mom taught me anatomy with our Dr Bones at home. It's so creepy, and the empty sockets are, of course, staring right at me. Looking away now. Ugh.
There's nothing else inside this room shackles: check, chains: check, Dr Bones:check, lock-less door: check, stupid transvestite redhead noble with brass left arm: check, shining floaty mirror: che- wait what? I scramble away. What the hell? The thing just popped out of thin air! What is this?! Nope nope.
Oh not good, magic is Not a good sign. Nope.
Inside it, somewhat unexpectedly, I see the same face I usually do. Blue eyes, slim cute face, covered in soot, short red hair, bit bloody, seems I got hit pretty hard on the noggin. Might as well check myself out. My worker clothes have been searched, no map, no tools, no knife. My muscles look good, even if I'm covered in filth. Disguise still intact at least, I'm still looking like Eli Smith, boy miner.
Why is there a mirror inside here? Makes no sense.
Well, gotta get out of here somehow.
As I think that, the image changes: now there's a hooded face with a long beard in there.
The figure seems to be focusing hard, and I can hear it speak soflty :"hey, young man, can you hear me?"
I nod, and say with a croaking voice "Who the hell are you old man?" I lift my fist, ready to punch the mirror
"Oh, you removed a shackle? That's excellent. Listen, I'm in the cell at the end of this corridor. If you ever manage to free yourself, just yell for food and our jailer will come. Our captor is an angry little man, and he likes to whip prisoners who make any sort of noise. If you can somehow ambush him, I only ask of you that you take pity upon myself, and subsequently open my cell and free me from my restraint. As you can probably guess, I'm an grand arcanist, and I can help you."
Well. That's a lot of good info presented into a flowery speech.
"How do I know you ain't one of my captors? How can I trust you?" I retort, thinking myself clever.
He sneers: "Do you have a choice? You took 2 days to undo a shackle. How much time do you think you have to free yourself before they come to take you to their altar and sacrifice you to their dark deity? A young man your age is prime sacrificial material, even if it's not well fed. They just torture me once in a while, but you have no value, being a cripple with a prosthetic hand. By the way, how did you manage to free your other hand with such a crude contraption? "
Ah. Shit. The sect. Now I remember what I was doing before I woke up here. They got me. Wait, 2 days? I was out for 2 days? Must've taken a bad blow to the head. Apparently my poker face isn't up to standard, as the man whispers :
"Well, no matter, at least you seem to know who they are if you're that scared of their means. The scums do have a modicum of power. Listen, I can't free myself from the anti-magicker restraint, please help me if you get out, and we'll both have a better chance to escape. Oh heavens. The mute bugger heard me talking, he's coming to my cell. I wish you good luck."
The mirror suddenly shatters silently in a myriad of dust, which promptly disappears.
Well. The man has a point. Plus, even if he can't free himself, this mirror magic could be useful for misdirection in a fight I guess.
First thing, though, is getting myself out.
To the rest of the shackles! Good thing I was initially right handed, even if my left arm is pretty precise, it's still more natural to use my -now free- right hand. I remove the lockpick from my finger slot, and after a few minutes I finally unlock all my shackles.
As usual, this hand of mine is a blessing. An ugly one for sure, but damn, it's good. After putting the lockpick back in the pinkie finger and making it close up again, I stand up.
Oof, shaky legs, I need food. And a bed. And a shower. Right dream on little girl. That ain't happening just yet.
For now I gotta get out.
I go towards the door and all I can hear putting my hear on it are uneven footsteps, then clicking noises. Then a loud metallic clank, and hinges grating.
And then I recognize the magicker's voice, yelling "please no, not again, I swear I'll stop, please, not the whip again, PLEASE, NO!" And then it devolves in yelps in between whip cracks.
Perfect opportunity. Did he yell on purpose? Sounds convincing. I wince and get to work on getting my shapely bottoms out of there.
There's a tiny slit between the door and the frame, it's the only source of light in here. I can see the lock bolt. Looks thin, I guess the chains are too small for the prisoners to get to the door, so the bolt - no wait it's bolts, plural- are pretty thin.
I pull up my left sleeve up above my shoulders, revealing my gleaming brass arm. Every part looks in place, and as always cool and reassuring.
With a shrug, my blade unfolds from the forearm part, and flips around my wrist like grandads army knife when he took me hunting. I insert the thin silvery blade inside the slit, and I slash down as hard as I can, with all my weight into it.
The shortsword barely makes any noise when meeting the 3 bolts, who swiftly experience being bisected by my mighty blow.
Yaay, step 2 of achieving freedom: check.
Now for step 3, do I save the mage or just sneak out?
He's still yelling. The jailer must be enjoying himself.
I can feel my face contorting with a frown. I hate bullies. I hate cults. I also don't like magic much, but I'll need all the help I can get.
I sneakily pull the door open. The corridor is pretty small, but "the mute" shouldn't hear the creacking of the hinges.
I look to my right, and there he is, broad-backed man in a dirty shirt with a black hood. A golden symbol of a serpent eating it's tail on the hood.
IT'S THEM. Thoughts of saving the mage swiftly fade away, replaced by hot unbridled rage.
A small part of myself that can still function shudders at the croaking roar that escapes from my lips. And as I run towards the scum, he turns around. Too late, fucker!
He still manage to get his left arm up to fend my overhead blow, but then the mage behind him grabs the whip the bastard held in his right arms and yanks it hard!
Then the only thing I notice is the gash in the fat toad's side, oozing blackened red blood onto my blade and hand. He groans, and collapses heavily on the floor, almost wrenching my wrist out of it's socket.
I just remove my blade, it exits the gaping wound with a sickly, slimy sound, and I keep stabbing in the man's flesh for a while before I regain my senses and the rage ebbs away. He's dead.
I killed a man again. And this time I wasn't defending myself.
The revulsion washes over me as I kneel and vomit bloody bile. My thumping heart isn't calming down, I do all I can to push back the thoughts of feeling the meaty thwacks his body emitted as I stabbed it again and again.
After a few minutes, I wipe my face with a bit of cloth from the man's hood that's relatively blood free.
I shudder at the thought of what I just did. I could've died again.
"Thank you young man. I'm not sure just how you did it given your small stature, but he's certainly not going to torture or force himself onto anyone anymore". The mages looks at the corpse and seems offended by the sight, but there is a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
"Would you kindly?" He urges me, looking at his own restraints.
Fighting against the urge to collapse and cry. I find a keyring at the man's wrist. I remove it and approach the "arcanist" who is just looking at my arm with wide open eyes, saying nothing.
I raise my sword at him "Thanks.. Now don't move or I'll skewer you too."
Damn my voice is too shaky, it almost sounded like my actual high pitched lady voice.
Keeping the mage under the threat of my blade, I get closer to him, "Hands!" I bark. His shackles are wierd. Like mine he's shackled to the walls, but his shackles look like big metal mittens with thick plates of iron, only with a hole for the thumbs. Guess he can't cast magic that way. How did he manage to summon the mirror?
Right after I unlock the big mitts, they split appart lengthwise like 2 halves of a round bread, and fall heavily of the stone floor.
The mages then goes "Thank you young man. But your blade is really not a threat to me now."
I panic, he's suddenly clear eyed and that smile looks downright hostile! He snaps his fingers as I try to lunge reflexively at him, but my body doesn't answer me!
Oh no, this is very bad, this is terrible.
I'm terrified. Powerless, again. Move! MOVE!
I can sense that the air around me is like a solid, me shaped, coffin.
He looks nonchalant, almost like he's strolling to the park.
"Now now, no need to fret. I will not kill you just yet. I'll just check your memories. You understand, I have to make sure you aren't a member of another of their temples. Now be calm it'll be over in a flash. For me at least."
I can't move. I can't think. What? But why would a member of their cult be kept in a cell? Why would I kill the jailor?
I feel like crying. Why would he do this? Why?
He stretches, and touches my forehead.
I can feel my consciousness fading, but in an almost gentle fashion, curing my headache and almost like he's just putting me to sleep.
I think I hear him one last time before completely blacking out.
"So then, who are you?"