It was after an unknown period of time that Mr. Edward was roused from his slumber, a biting cold assaulting his senses once more.
The first thing he remembered was the searing agony that he had expected but found absent.
Slowly, he moved his fingers trembling in horrific memory but discovered to his astonishment, that his face was fully intact.
It was confusing—his dire plight, that is.
To his surprise, he felt no pain, and as his eyes grew accustomed to his surroundings, he noticed that he seemed to be in what was a natural cave.
"T⍥ņ Ȟ⩃٧Ԑ ⩃⩤⩃&ԐռԐꓓ," an elderly voice spoke prompting him to turn around.
Before him, obstructed only by iron bars, was an aged woman in ragged clothes.
Mr. Edward recognized her as he had dubbed her Witch Elder for obvious reasons.
Her face bore defined wrinkles whilst her eyes revealed a vigorous crimson luminance that suppressed him in some mysterious way.
Like his, her hair was of a deep silky black that defied her age, making it seem as though the only feature that aged on her was her skin.
She was damnably human in general outline, and yet an unspeakable aura clung to her, one that Mr. Edward could not quite grasp, and yet she observed him as he observed her.
"T⍥ņ ⩯⍥ጥȞԐ𐑮 թ⩃/ꓓ ⩃ Ϟ/ዥ⩃ѦᒻԐ թ𐑮/ጰԐ į⍥𐑮 ጥȞԐ 𐑮ԐϞጥ⍥𐑮⩃ጥ/⍥ռ ⍥į T⍥ņ𐑮 į⩃ጰԐ ⩃ռꓓ Ԑ٧Ԑռ ⩯⍥𐑮Ԑ į⍥𐑮 ጥȞԐ 𐑮ԐϞጥ⍥𐑮⩃ጥ/⍥ռ ⍥į T⍥ņ𐑮 Ϟ⩃ռ/ጥT ahh ϞņጰȞ ⩃ ⩤Ԑ⩃&ᒻ/ռᏵ, ᒻ⍥Ϟ/ռᏵ T⍥ņ𐑮 ⩯/ռꓓ ⩃įጥԐ𐑮 ⩃ Ϟ⩯⩃ᒻᒻ /ռጰ/ꓓԐռጥ Ѧņጥ Ԑ٧Ԑռ ⩯T ԐTԐϞ į⩃/ᒻ ጥ⍥ ϞԐԐ ጥȞԐ թ𐑮⍥ѦᒻԐ⩯ ⩤/ጥȞ T⍥ņ /ጥ ⩃թթԐ⩃𐑮Ϟ ጥȞ⩃ጥ / ⩤/ᒻᒻ Ȟ⩃٧Ԑ ጥ⍥ 𐑮Ԑጥņ𐑮ռ ȞԐ𐑮 թ⩃T⩯Ԑռጥ."
As the woman spoke, Mr. Edward discovered, to his horror, that she revealed no vestige of human emotion—not a single twitch, frown, or unnecessary expression, deepening her uncanny nature.
He could hardly read her, with the only information he was able to get being the fact that she was breathing.
Having said whatever witchcraft she came here to reveal, she turned back and walked away.
Now that she was gone, Mr. Edward tried to examine the place, but first, he resolved to examine himself.
There was a wooden bowl in front of him filled with water, thus allowing him to see his own reflection, his eyes widening as a result, not because of his hideous and unrecognizable visage—as one would expect, but the perfectly intact face of a black haired, viridian-eyed little boy.
"Was it all a dream?" Mr. Edward thought shaking his head soon after as he tried to get on his feet.
It was dark within the cave, but that was to be expected with the meager illumination provided.
Looking around, Mr. Edward discovered that the cave was empty, a cave which was part of a larger structure entombed beneath the weight of the cold, unyielding earth.
The chamber stretched into tenebrous obscurity, whilst the damp air clung thickly, laden with the metallic tang of mildew and the acrid stench of decay.
Walls of ancient, pitted stone bore the slick sheen of unending moisture, their surfaces adorned with streaks of unnatural, cadaverous lichen that thrived in this accursed gloom.
The dim echoes of dripping water were evident in the oppressive silence, heightening the pervasive sense of dread in this place.
Peering outside his cell, Mr. Edward noticed rows of cells lining the room, cruelly hewn alcoves barred by rusted iron gates that, thanks to his position, were out of reach to his senses.
In the corner of his cell, Mr. Edward also noted a foul pit, no more than a jagged hole in the stone, radiating the vile stench of human waste—a grim reminder that he was not the first to languish in such a forsaken place.
At the chamber's heart stood a table of warped and splintered wood, its surface marred by gouges and stains.
From its center was a grotesque pole, encrusted with a writhing growth of red, luminescent fungi, the only source of the room illumination.
Now that he seemed to have the time, Mr. Edward tried to examine this fungi to the best of his ability not that his ability could be fully utilized by plain observation.
The fungi, as previously mentioned, exuded an otherworldly, pulsating incandescence, bathing the room in a baleful crimson light that seemed to dance and flicker, casting grotesque shadows that played upon the walls.
Beyond their ghastly luminescence, these fungi possessed no distinguishing features to set them apart from ordinary lichen.
Sitting on the table with eyes closed was a guard, his form cloaked in obsidian armor that gleamed like oil-slicked metal under the fungal glow.
The armor, crafted with unsettling precision, bore rivets and joints to repel the damp. Its plates melded seamlessly, resembling the chitinous carapace of an abyssal entity.
Thick, fur-lined cloaks hung heavily from his shoulders, their edges sodden with the cave's omnipresent moisture.
Looking at his helm, one would notice that it was adorned with a hood that dripped incessantly, the water trailing down like tears from hollow, implacable visors.
The guard sat motionless, yet his presence was an affront to serenity. Whilst it was nothing compared to the Elder's maleficence or the Chief's dominion, it was still palpable.
"So it is like this," Mr. Edward thought to himself while resigning to his fate.
Even in a new world, he had been tortured and imprisoned against his will rendered utterly powerless.
Unable to act, Mr. Edward fixated on the guard, peering with a mind desperate for escape.
With glacial patience, Mr. Edward waited, time trickling by, never managing to eat at his patience until, after an unknown amount of time, the guard moved, stretching slightly as he stood up.
It was then that Mr. Edward noticed a cluster of crude iron keys dangling from the guard's belt, drawing his focus to the corroded lock on his cell door.
Mr. Edward sat atop the cold stone of his cell, his sharp eyes narrowing as they studied the lock affixed to his cell door.
He didn't need to touch it, every curve, notch, and groove of the iron mechanism revealed itself to him through sheer observation.
The lock was primitive, crude even, a reflection of the blacksmith's limited ingenuity rather than true craftsmanship or, more plainly, the lack of precise machinery. It was a warded lock, with its mechanism hidden behind an iron casing pitted with rust.
"The internal obstructions are designed to block anything, but the correct keys are likely simplistic, their positions predictable to anyone with a mind sharp enough to deduce patterns." Mr. Edward thought to himself whilst he continued his observation.
His gaze shifted subtly to the guard now fully awake.
The strange man stretched a bit, before getting on his feet, his deep eyes revealing a familiar red glow.
The key for his lock dangled there, on the guard belt, one amongst many, a slender rod of darkened iron, its bow, like the rest, a simple loop for easy grip, its bit shaped into the crude outline of jagged teeth.
"Ϟ⍥ T⍥ņ Ȟ/ꓓ ጥȞԐ ٧⍥/ꓓ ϞȞ⩃𐑮ꓓ ⩤Ԑ𐑮Ԑ?"
A guttural exclamation from the guard tore through the stillness rousing Mr. Edward from his meticulous contemplation, a shadow looming over him.
Flawlessly utilizing the gaps in his keen yet overburdened attentiveness, the guard had appeared before Mr. Edward, his expression a mask of disdain.
Mr. Edward, knowing the outcome of a response, remained taciturn, keeping his head bowed.
It was not wise to display even the faintest hints of defiance, a lesson that was sometimes hard learned in captivity.
His submissive posture seemed to appease the guard for a moment, but moments were fleeting, and so too was any respite.
To his surprise, the guard walked away not to his table but towards a part of the cell lost to the periphery of his vision, his actions a subject of apprehension to Mr. Edward.
It was a futile notion to assume that one could fully predict human—or, in this case, inhuman behavior. Without understanding every motive, every external, and every flickering thought one is merely guessing at a tapestry woven of unknowable threads.
Such was the case for Mr. Edward when the guard returned, his hand gripping the braided handle of a jagged whip.
"What madness!" Mr. Edward thought in sheer horror, involuntarily grinding his teeth whilst his heartbeat increased.
"Was my submissive behavior not enough to pacify him or is this some cruel routine," Mr. Edward pondered as the guard unhooked the keys from his belt.
The lock groaned in protest, the rusted metal yielding with a dreadful screech as the cell door creaked open.
"Pa!"
A sharp, abhorrent sound rang out, the slash biting into his flesh. The pain was immediate, visceral, and overwhelming slicing through his resolve like a hot blade slicing through wax.
His screams echoed in the chamber, a sound both piercing and raw shattering the heavy silence.
There was no respite; his body moving spasmodically on the gelid ground while his mind immediately went into shock.
Adrenaline surged forth, yet it brought no reprieve. It could not dull the pain—no, this torment was too real, too immediate for such paltry defenses.
Lacerations crisscrossed his body, each jagged wound oozing blood and he knew instinctively just how dire his condition was.
In the minutes, just before he lost consciousness, he caught a glimpse of another guard moving toward the one that whipped him, his movements rather aggressive, yelling at him in an unknown language.
It would appear that this guard had acted solely on his own volition, an act that Mr. Edward had taken note of before his eyes closed.