The damp stone ceiling Ulricht had been staring at generated small trickles of water every minute, almost unfailingly for the last four hours since he had awaken. It then dawned upon him that such monotonous observation might be the closest thing he would have as an entertainment. But he reckoned that not only days of boredom awaited him inside the dungeons, but also hours of excruciating torture if not a single second of pain that would end it all. Perhaps a combination of both. But whether it be boredom, torture or execution that would claim his life, he was almost certain his crusade against those who had wronged him was over, together with his freedom. The notion of breaking out of his captivity had not even crossed his mind.
A man with no hope was as dull as a wooden sword. Nevertheless, a weapon could only be as good as its wielder. Even a piece of wood could end the life of someone under a man of good mind and strong will.
