(S) Escape; i loved the rides, 'specially the Inverter. Man that was scary shit.

Escape

Gabriel held himself with pride.

Cutting a noble image, the man radiated control and calm. Yet despite all his outwardly appearances, he was afraid. For he, was a prisoner.

Barely a Sun ago, did the forces of Vruk Thul fall upon his squad, a scouting party for the main Templar legions. Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, Gabriel was unable to get a messenger past the encircling enemy. Cruelly toyed with, he watched with rising despair as the barbarians picked their targets slowly. Luckily, or unluckily as he saw it, he was spared when Vruk Thul’s soldiers, squinting, had recognised his armour. The curved talon-shaped pauldrons not only proved an intimidating sight, but served also as an indication of a Knight of the Rose, loosely translating as a sub-commander in their own ranks. Delighted by their catch, his captors brought him to Dalgorn Keep, a day’s march from where the Templar host stood now.

Dalgorn Keep, a once proud bastion of the White Wizards, allies of the Templar, was now a shadow of its former glory. The presence of Vruk Thul permeated every corner of the keep, like a coiling miasma.

Gabriel was left in the dungeons. Several attempts suggested that the cell doors, in contrast to the state of dilapidation around the keep, stood fast against any breach. Shaken in faith, Gabriel could only sigh in defeat, sitting in the darkest corner of the cell; the code of the Templar rang loud in his mind, “Victory in death”. The Templar High Lord would not be pleased.

Soon, the afternoon sun sunk in the sky, filtering ember-light in the chamber. These too, in time, melted away, cast aside by the darkness that now filled the sky.

Gabriel jerked awake. Crouched in the corner, he watched as a guard, bearing his meal came around. His heart palpitated wildly and a myriad of dangerous thoughts sprung to mind. Sub-consciously, his hand strayed to the sword pommel at his side. Fingers grasped at air. Biting back a curse, he slunk further into the corner, planning his escape.

The belligerent guard peered at the unarmed prisoner in the dark, seemingly asleep in the night. This seemed to comfort him, as his shoulders drooped, relaxed, when he opened the door to the cell.

His shoulders remained relaxed, even as the figure that slouched against the cell walls lunched at him. The speed of movement that struck him never even registered. Quickly, Gabriel swapped positions with the guard; any unsuspecting soul would only see ‘Gabriel’ still against the cell walls.

Stealing across the compound, he went at lengths to remain undiscovered. His armour fond of talking out loud, had long since been discarded along the way. The guards posted at the gate were very close to falling asleep, and by the sound of their voices, also very drunk. Grim determination set in as he neared the exit.

A whistling sound whipped through the air, permeating the heavy silence that had settled down for the night. Surprised, Gabriel glanced down. A long shaft had found its way through his unprotected body. Clutching his belly, he turned to the source, a stoic expression on his face. Intense pain tugged at his features, yet he felt none of it as a fire within flared up. Running was pointless now.

Instead, he turned, running towards the gate guards, his roar of defiance ricocheting around the Keep. The guards could only watch in a drunken stupor as Gabriel, brandishing a sword drawn from their own scabbards, brought it down upon them.

He would not be taken in.

Turning his back to the locked steel gates, Gabriel faced the compound that was filling with soldiers by the second.

True, he would not be able to report back to the Templar army, but at least he would not be a prisoner. Yelling again, he dove into the throng of warriors, his sword finding its place in the sea of its brothers. The code of the Templar rang in his mind, “Victory in death”.

He had found his escape.


Bryan Freeman (01)
4B
22.4.08