The Escape Part 1 - A bucket Full

A Bucket Full

The problem with Nightmares is, when you wake up, you always ask yourself if it was real. No matter how old, wise or used to the terrors of the mind you become, they always bring a doubt over Reality. That nightmare had been no different, the same as usual. Gore, plenty too, and the wails. Men make such horrible noises when they die, especially in war. The noise stays with you, never far from Recollection. And you never, ever get used to it.

This one had been no different. Unlike past night terrors, this one hadn’t been about the trauma of youth and the death of his father at the hands of the Orc’s. It hadn’t been about His love forsaking him when she was pregnant with Saihna and Aldant. It hadn’t even been about the shadow of Ataris and the dark sphere. War and Battle he had coped with remembering for years, And so tonight that’s what chose to haunt him, but a fresh clash, not old.

The Screaming of horses, the wail of blood choked voices. Steel singing, Sword on axe. Everything was in red, as it always is in these dreams. Each man around him was struck down from his horse one by one, to be butchered like their lives meant nothing. When the Alliance banner was finally torn down by muscular green hands, it ended as it always did.

Seiken woke with a start, Air rushing into his lungs as if he hadn’t taken a breath in hours. Coarse, Dank air Rushed over a Dry parched tongue, almost burning his haggard throat. He would have leapt to his feet, had the chains not stopped him. Darkness was the only greeting he got from the world of the living, of reality. Narrowing his eyes brought little change. The murk of the room was constant, the Steel door let no stray beams of light through, and stone covered every other side. He sighed, fidgeting. He’d been in this position for weeks now. Slumped with his back against the wall while he dangled from the wall by the arms, His wrists shackled and chained so tight that any movement only brought trickles of blood and shredded skin.

Another day in paradise... or is it night?

The passage of time was impossible to follow; only the occasional meal and dowsing of his parched throat gave any indication that time even moved forward, let alone followed the sun or moon. When he’d been shown off as a Trophy in Orgrimmar’s Hall of the brave, he’d been well exposed to the elements and knew day from night as well as any. He also knew the pain of lashes, beatings, and mockery. Though he welcomed the rotten fruit and Vegetables, he could occasionally grab something in his mouth and force it down. Water was the problem though; seldom did he get even a trickle, let alone enough to quench his thirst.

At least when the Kor’kron realised their prize wasn’t getting them the attention they wanted they moved him down here to this dank hole. Down here there was no more public spectacle or punishment. Down here, he could heal. Though his Back still ached, and the lash marks throbbed, he was getting better... if only...

I need water.

It was obvious enough. He couldn’t last many more days like this, Whether the Orc’s were doing this on purpose or through absent minded neglect, the dry darkness was going to kill him soon enough. The thought of escape had crossed his mind, But he’d gotten too weak now, what was beyond his Cell door was a mystery, and doubtless the whole of Orgrimmar was between him and freedom.

It would be suicide... but would it be better than wasting away, what would Arador say?

The Door shuddered with the clank and groan of moving metal.

Before Seiken had even realised it was opening the first blinding beam of light was on his face and Burning his vision. It was like being born anew into the world each time as things came back into view, Depth perception returned and colours flooded back into his memory.

The Light had come from the brazier in the corridor, in front of the Cell’s iron door; he knew this from memory, as this time it was being blocked by a green muscled mass of Orc.

“Hurr, you still breathing old man?” Chuckled the Jailer. Seiken had never learnt his name, but he had learnt enough orcish to know what he was saying. Though he had never really got a good look at him, he looked like most other Orc’s, Green, black hair, bare chest...

“Time for stale bread and water! Har!” He leaned down to set three slices of mould ridden brown loaf and a bowl of water on the cobbled cell floor, Food fit for the rats, and this desperate man.

It was as this happened, that Seiken noticed a shadow slip into the cell behind the jailor as he prattled on, half shambling, but the same size as the other Orc. His human eyes struggling to navigate its identity in the shifting gloom. His moving eyes must of betrayed the stranger as the jailor noticed them and turned to look, a little too late.

Smash! It was a firm sound, it didn’t echo down here, it didn’t mean death, but it did mean the jailor fell flat on his face and out for the count, with the privy bucket and contents smashed over his skull.

Seiken leant forward in his chains, trying as best he could to focus on the unwitting jailors assailant. It was an Orc, a male grunt, large hide and plate spaulders atop his shoulders and a lack of armour on much the rest of him. Or perhaps that is merely what it wanted you to think.

A disguise? But barely so.

First and foremost, from left hip to left Armpit, There was a giant zipper. The green leathery hide of the Orc wasn’t skin, but meshed weave cloth over thick padding to give it the look of muscle and bone.

It hobbled, no wobbled forward a few steps with arms flailing to keep balance on what was obviously stilts under the padded costume to give it height. Leaning down to look Seiken in the eye he could see that it was indeed a costume, a rather bad one. And in the gloom of the mouth he could see the shimmer of mitral teeth, the tint of purple glass goggles and a fuzz of brown beard.

Ildranor?

”Bit overdue wit’ breakin ya out sah! ... but if ya ask me, ya should nay o’got caught ta begin with, ya Pansy!”

...Pansy