Isekai venting trash

Isekai venting

I am the First Prince.

The sensation in my legs is as akin to jelly wrapped by cotton. My breathing is hoarse and pained. I stagger down the darkened flagstone steps with my bloody right hand scraping the rough stone circumference of the staircase's wall, smearing blood in uneven broken trails as I descend. The pain is uncomfortable but numbed by adrenaline.

I wince at the next step, the small dagger in my gut shifting. Keep going. I am the First Prince. I have to keep going.

Having to experience an assassination is inevitable for a monarch. The more powerful the country, the more power can be gained from your removal. Its one of the first things my father drilled into me as a young man. Our kingdom - my kingdom - certainly enjoys no small amount of prosperity. It was inevitable, I almost laugh. The clenching of my gut around the embedded blade cuts my self-deprecation short with a grunt and a fresh surge of pain.

I was trained to have a keen awareness for espionage in my surroundings. To know which servant is a spy. Which guard might be amenable to bribery. To feel the knife's advance before it leaves it's sheathe. Frankly, I was more than prepared for someone to attempt my life, but i must admit that my own family was something of a blind spot.

The First Prince. Meaning, the first of several. All of whom are most likely dead, or similarly inconvenienced.

My sister. The sole princess of the country and its most famous jewel. This dagger is hers. I feel the betrayal more deeply than the physical wound.

"And you brother, make six."

The small smile as she steps back from the casual thrust. The satisfied look, free of malice. Like a maid admiring a polished set of silverware.

I don't understand it. How she could kill so easily - so happily. A life has weight, dear sister, and cannot be taken lightly.

The smell of water is getting stronger now. The air grows thick with moisture as the temperature steadily drops with each footstep down. Almost there. Getting close to the end of the staircase.

I survived by acting quickly. Confirming the position of my wound and the dagger's lingering presence. I feigned shock, and collapsed to the floor in a controlled manner, to avoid jostling the blade and gently shut my eyes, daring not to breathe. My death was not instant, but as long as she didn't know that, I had a chance.

Apparently satisfied, my sister leaves the room, heels clicking against the marble floor as she exits my study. From there I entered a secret passage known only to me, my father and my mother; A staircase leading to a secret dock below the castle linked to the Foum River.

— Chapter 1: The Naked Truth

As my consciousness stirs, the first thing I feel is the cold, from head to toe. The second is a combination of a sensation of nausea and dizziness that drowns out the prickly sensation on my skin where i'm lying.

My open eyes are greeted by a clear dirty blue sky, and the tops of thin deciduous white trees I presume to be birch by the coloration of their bark. The breeze is light, and birdsong is discernible, if only faintly, somewhere out of sight.

It goes without saying, I feel, that this is an unusual situation I find myself in. More so when taking into consideration my complete lack of clothing. If I were more typical of my age I'd blame reckless alcohol abuse, but I seldom drink even a single bottle. Moreover, it doesn't align with my last clear memories, nor am I aware of any forest like this near my home, the last place I remember being.

Sitting up, I groan slightly as the woodchips and dirt sticking to my sweaty back find themselves dislodged and broken apart. Feeling itchy, i reach back and scrape off the rest. Ok. Plan of action.

	⁃	Examine surroundings for potential threats to my well-being.
Nothing for a few hundred yards in any direction, and the trees don't provide much in the way of cover.

	⁃	Examine body for anomalies
My body seems fine. No external injuries or markings. Oh. I can see clearly. I didn't notice before, but my glasses are gone. And yet, I can see about as well as I could if I were wearing them, although I feel a bit dizzy when I squint. Unusual, but lets table that for now as it's convenient.


	⁃	Look for any landmarks
Off to the northeast is a sheer cliff face about a quarter mile off. It extends a fair ways out of view but i can't quite make out the details even with my eyesight restored. Other than that, its just trees in all directions. No structures old or new. Literally the middle of nowhere. Not ideal, but it'll be a while before I need to start seriously worrying, as the sun hasn't quite reached it's apex yet. Not to say I'm completely calm. Its still an unprecedented problem I've been presented with. Also, i'm cold. Its a pleasant day but i'm no yak, or anything.

	⁃	Assess your haves, and have-nots.
Have: Improved eyesight:
Have not: Food, water, clothing, shelter, any idea where i am or why.

	⁃	In order of priority, make have-nots, haves.

For this one, the first thing I need to do is find food and water. To accomplish both my best option is going to be a clear flowing river or stream with fish in it. From there I'm going to need to gather scraps of firewood and some rocks to me a protected fire nearby to that water source. Shelter and clothing would be nice but i'm going to have to make do without the latter and create for myself the former. I'm reasonably confident I can scrape together some basic tools and the like with the right matrials and some time. Maybe a simple flint axe? It would serve as a primitive weapon in a pinch.

	⁃	Plan for the future

Obviously, I can't play naked mountain man forever. I'll need to scrape together enough supplies to allow for a few days of travel. The ideal being to find my way back to civilisation.

	⁃	Act

No sense wasting time. I'm, cold, hungry, and itchy.

—

Five minutes later, or thereabouts, I'm already mourning the absence of shoes.

I may have slightly thicker soles than some people my age, but all these twigs and pebbles are not kind to bare feet. I have to be extremely careful not to step on anything that might cause injury. If i get a wound without the means to treat it there's a very real risk of infection, and if i lose the use of my feet i'll be forced to scrape my legs and stomach raw from crawling. Which would be even slower than my steady, cautious pace, and several times more painful.

I haven't gotten very far from where I started, when I hear a loud high pitched whistle in the opposite direction of where I'm hobbling. Turning around I see 3 figures approaching, one mounted on a large horse like creature with a bull-shaped head. All three are wearing chainshirts and have swords belted to their waists.

Medieval Fantasy Land. Great. This just got a whole lot more complicated. Wait for them to initiate conversation. I can think up my story from there.

It takes about two minutes for them to catch up to me. Now that they're closer I can see that the two on foot are wearing an armband of red cloth with an emblem stitched onto it - both look to be about 15 years old. Give or take. Whilst the man on the saddled beast looks to be about the same age as me. He has a funny moustache and a haughty look in his eyes, which wavers every few seconds into disgust at my nakedness. The teens are pointedly avoiding direct eyecontact. Thanks. I'm not any less embarrassed here, you know.

"The border with Dren is off limits to all civilians. Identify yourself at once." Announces the senior patrolman.

The border? Hm. They might think me a spy or a refugee. Or a spy pretending to be a refugee. Best not play that angle and admit my ignorance. Either way they'll bring me back for questioning, but claiming familiarity with either country is just going to get me in more trouble when they start asking about things I don't know. With that in mind, and my hands firmly glued to my crotch, i respond, as calmly as I can, "I have no idea where I am or why."

The soldier on the left seems to be trying to restrain laughter, but the captain(?) seems to find my confidence offensive and sneers, "A likely story. I suppose you'll be singing the same tune all the way to the gallows?"

"We can debate my honesty for hours if you'd like, but i'm cold and thirsty. So with that said, 'Take me to your Leader'" I respond evenly. I know you're trying to be intimidating but I can't take anyone with that overly groomed moustache seriously. Mook #1 over there isn't the only one trying not to laugh. I'm just saying. Shave. Please.

"Also if you have a spare pair of trousers i'd appreciate it if you let me borrow them."

—

The border patrol had a large blanket rolled up and tied to the 'Gynnea' which they've lent me for the journey back to their town. It's big enough that i've wrapped it round my shoulders like a cloak and the ends still reach my ankles. Enough to protect my modesty, but not particularly warm or comfortable. Also they don't have any spare shoes, so being pushed along at swordpoint with wrists tied only serves to irritate me further. On the bright side, the trails and road we've been following have far less rubbish covering it so I can afford to stagger along at a pace my escort finds reasonable. Mostly.

After a fair bit of walking, and a lot of prodding, we clear the treeline and a tall stone wall encircling a small town comes into view approximately 5 minutes away. It looks fairly solid, even at a distance, but I don't see much in the way of fortifications, in spite of that. No cannons, that I can see, and only the one tower, made of wood, rising up from the left corner. Perhaps it's all still under construction?

Hm, no. If that were the case there'd be workers and rigging covering the place. So why is a town near a country's border - no idea to whom but from the current reality of me being arrested by a border patrol I doubt a friendly place - so poorly fortified? I grimace mid-thought as the youth behind me gives my back a shove. Seems that I slowed down when I was thinking. No matter; I'll take it as a cue to wait until i've got time to myself. Assuming they don't try to execute me on the spot.

Before long we arrive at the gate - more of a wide gap in the plastered stone wall with guards and wooden stakes filling the space. The soldiers are all similarly equipped to the teens who've been escorting me back. Shortsword. Chainmail. A few are carrying spears or boiled leather shields. Very basic. Little to no protection otherwise, not even helmets or identifiable uniform colours. On top of that they all look, without exception, like they've drawn the short straw in life. Completely devoid of professional pride and utterly bored. If I didn't know any better I'd almost think they were bandits. Captain Curlystache exchanges a few short words with one of the better groomed soldiers before nudging his mount back into motion with a spurred boot. Supposedly, the spurs are necessary because it's hide is too thick for it to register the fact it's rider is kicking it. I tried asking about it on the way here, but the captain glared at Mook #2 until he stopped talking.

Moving on from the security checkpoint, the town opens up into a small plaza with stone slabs for flooring. Further ahead is a wide dirt street flanked by tudor style housing and shops, branching into separate paths at near folixed intervals. To the left seems to be a parking spot of coaches and wagons, and a few drivers are loitering around chatting amongst themselves or gambling with dice. And on the right is a large grey stone building a fair distance away, nestled into the corner of the wall with stairs between it and the wall leading up onto the battlements, flying flags with the same symbol as the one on one he captain's wristband. I'm going to guess its where the town's guard are headquartered. Naturally, this building is where we're headed.

—

After a few minutes I'm brought to a small square room, with a wooden table and two chairs on opposite sides. The room itself is fairly dusty and claustrophobic, with nothing of any sort of decoration or even colour. A single thick candle burns on the table, giving off a dim light.

The table itself has a pair of strange metals gauntlet affixed to it's surface with the palm facing upwards on the left hand, a sort of cradle hooked between the fingertips and thumb, and a small chain attached to the right-handed gauntlet. Looks like a torture device for the purposes of interrogations. This does not fill me with confidence.

The guard who has taken custody of me after being handed over by the patrol grabs my wrist, and pulls me to the table, pushing me into the seat in front of the gauntlets and strapping my arms into them, tightly. I choose not to resist as he looks to be in a bad mood and antagonising him is probably just going to get me punched or something.

Once satisfied I'm not going anywhere, he turns around and half-marches out of the room, stopping to salute another man moving to enter, who shuts the metal door behind him.

The newcomer is a middle aged male in slightly better condition than the rank and file i've seen so far, though his eyes have faint bags under them and he looks rather depressed, albeit resolved to do his duty of questioning me. In terms of attire, he carries no sword but a large dagger in it's place similar to a combat knife in size; He wears the same chainmail as the others but he also has a set of iron shoulderguards with a leafy vine pattern engraved into them. Obviously someone with money and status in town.

With barely a glance to acknowledge my presence, he walks past me to take the other seat before finally making eye contact, if briefly. Instead of introducing himself immediately he pulls out a thick wool cloth bundle and unwraps it to reveal a chunk of metal embedded with some sort of clear gemstone. The man then takes that mysterious lump and slots it into the receptacle in the left gauntlet. I wince involuntarily when it comes into contact with my skin, as it feels unnaturally cold.

The man then rests his arms on the table and clears his throat, "My name is Commander Harold Forchester. I am responsible for safeguarding the border which you were found attempting to cross."

He politely glosses over my lack of clothing. I'm still wearing this itchy makeshift poncho, so there's that, but with my hands restrained like this i can't pull it back up or relieve the itchiness.

"In order to bring the full truth of your crimes to light, I have authorised use of The Gauntlet," He continues, gesturing to my hands, "If you lie to me, The Nail of Truth will sear a brand into your flesh. Continue to lie and it will burn through your palm completely."

Isn't that just peachy. I can't help but wonder if this 'Nail' is strictly binary in it's function or if it's sensitive to half-truths and the like. Regardless, blatant falsehood is, so to speak, off the table. I nod, signalling understanding.

"So you do posess intelligence. Interesting. I scarce believed it when I received word. Tell me, what manner of creature are you?" The commander leans forward.

Creature, am I? I'd feel insulted -I'm not handsome by any means but i'm not exactly ugly either - but There's obviously a long story behind that question, so I make a mental note to inquire further at an appropriate juncture.

"Human." Keep it simple where possible.

At first Harold scowls as if expecting that response but his eyes widen, briefly darting to the still inactive Nail, before he regains his composure. For my part, I stay passive and silent.

"A human, from there? Unbelievable. Yet you appear to be telling the truth," (Interesting, he doesn't seem to fully trust this device, thusly noted), "What is your name then?"

"Call me Daniel." I decide to take a risk, based on his apparent distrust of this thing. Daniel isn't my real name, but i'm curious to see how much I can get away with not telling him. I shrug slighty to add a little authenticity to the charade. My face doesn't change expression either, though I feel inwardly pleased that it isn't contorted into one of agony, as the Nail continues to remain inert.

"Daniel, is it? Tell me, whose hand holds your leash?" Says Forchester, smug.

"I'm not a spy, if that's what you're asking. If I was I wouldn't be here. Nobody would retain an agent this incompetent." I reply smoothly. I admit I might be coming off a bit flippant, but under the circumstances most people would be a tear-drenched wreck. So forgive me if my frustration leaks out.

The commander doesn't laugh at my joke, not even changing expression, "Why were you attempting to cross the border?"

"I wasn't."

Still no reaction from this Nail thing.

"Then-"

He's about to ask another question when the sound of someone running towards the door in the corridor gives him pause; A few moments later a red faced man in either his late twenties or early thirties bursts into the room, slamming the door against the wall, breathing heavily, "Commander, sir!"

Commander Harold is obviously irritated by the intrusion, but he gets up from his seat anyway, looking like a mother waiting for their child to admit to stealing the last biscuit.

The soldier starts a salute but reconsiders, "Sir, it's Dren. They're attacking the city. Sir, there're hundreds of them."

"Hundreds? But how did so many get past our patr-" protests the Commander, before he stiffens and turns to glare bloody murder at me, "You. You distracted our patrol."


Oh. He just took a swan dive into a wrong conclusion. This does not bode well for my immediate future. Although, having said that, hundreds of enemy forces coming to attack this town is also problematic given what I saw of the defences. The couple dozen soldiers -no, amateur militia, at the gate will be crushed - even by an enemy the same number. Shit. If these idiots don't kill me, that army is going to play football with my skull by the end of the day if things continue to escalate.

While I've been thinking all this Harold has been cursing his luck repeatedly, and fervently. The messenger looks worried by his superior's loss of composure,but doesn't have the courage to offer words of encouragement, instead looking as though he needs to hear somebody tell him everything's alright.

The first to break the awkward atmosphere is the Commander, since I don't believe he's capable of listening to reason from me right now, supposed lie detector or no, "I'm going out there, put this -whatever he is - into a cell. Then come to the frontline."

With that he pushes past the messenger then breaks into a sprint in the corridor and out of sight. Leaving the two of us in the room together, which he doesn't look thrilled by.

—

The keys rattle in the lock of the door, preceding a metallic thunk noise, signalling the locked nature of the cell door. The guard leers at me through the wooden beams, spitting a gobbet of phlegm into the small room and turning to leave. I say nothing in response, leaning against the back wall and sinking to the cold stone floor. It's faint, but I can just barely hear shouting in the distance from the small barred window above me.

With a sigh i reach to my shins and pull them into inspect my sore feet. Truthfully, I ache a little all over but my feet especially are in poor condition, with cracked and torn skin at the hardened edges of my heels, and a small quantity of soil filling a few of the openings. Thankfully, my cautious approach to walking has prevented any open wounds, so rinsing my feet off in a bucket of warm water followed by a day or two off my feet should be enough to recover. I don't think thats going to be a reality for the near future, however. Still, the crass farewell that guard gave gave me a...somewhat distasteful idea. I may not have a bucket of water but i can clean some of it off with my own saliva. Again, distasteful, but its not like i care about anyone seeing me in this state. They're all out there trying to not die.

In the meantime, I should take a step back from the present to calm down, and re-evaluate the situation. I may be imprisoned and in danger of being executed for imagined crimes, but I am at the very least, not dead yet. So in that sense, the principle hasn't changed. All that has changed is the setting.

"Assess, Survive, Adapt, Thrive." I mutter, "A plan of action that's almost always applicable. The situation speaks for itself: Locked in a cell on suspicion of collaborating with an enemy state, awaiting judgment and execution by either the local garrison or the 'Dren'. I have nothing other than this heavy blanket. Guess a more cowardly sort would think of using it to hang themselves. Not an option. I can't leave the cell with either a key to the lock, or some method of breaking free through force. So, now what? I guess I just wait for an opportunity to present itself. Just tap the table and wait for the dealer to give you a new card to bet on. Basic poker tactics. Still, that only covers the immediate problem of survival."

When I'm thinking about something seriously, I find it comforting to speak aloud about my ideas, as If there were a second 'me' in the room. Like, I guess you could call it an External Monologue. Probably a product of narcissism and isolation.

I let go of my slightly less dirty feet and wipe off my palms and soles with the edge of the blanket, then sit cross-legged.

"But that doesn't cover the more esoteric concerns. Why and how did I come to be here? Why can't I remember the exact details? What is going on in this 'world'?" I posit a series of questions as though writing them on an imaginary chalkboard, "The first question relies on the second being answered and resolved, and the third requires an unbiased and forthright source of information. Something I'm not going to get in a cell, which just brings me back to the problem of my confinement. In other words, something that can be solved with time. That just leaves one other question: Why am I in perfect health?"

The first thing I noticed was the lack of glasses and subsequently my historic need to rely on them being removed. Odd, but no less strange than waking up naked in the woods, at the time and it was still my body, so I shrugged it off. But in the intervening time, I also became conscious of some more changes. Namely, that any excess fat I had is now gone, my posture has been corrected and my voice had regained it's full strength. As if someone or something had taken my body and hit the factory reset button to make it how it would have been before genetics degraded my eyesight and before years of neglect weakened my body. When I realised that, I felt a wave of nausea that dissipated when Mook #2 gave me another shove to keep moving. Even now, irrational though it is, I think that bothers me the most out of everything else. Not the imminent death, but the nebulous nature of this 'fixed' body. See, my body before wasn't perfect, but it was still me. That is, an important part of my identity. That it's gone is like saying I never lived that life. Something I find strangely insulting. I scowl at the cell door.

"But again, i'm stuck in this cell with no way out, so ruminating on the philosophical aspects of identity as informed by physical appearance or asking questions to nothing and no-one about similar issues is a pointless endeavour fit only for passing the time. Although having said that," I sigh and rub my face with one hand, as if wiping off the stress, "I at least have goals for the future beyond survival.  Something suitable to motivate me to push through this mire of shit instead of giving in to the ridiculousness of it all and sinking into despair."

Simply put, I won't accept death. I want answers even if I lack the means to find them. I can wait as long as it takes for those means to come to me. In the meantime, I should rest and give myself a chance to calm down. As well as recover some of my stamina.

And so, with a deep breath I close my eyes, then try to relax. I can still hear the faint sounds of fighting in the distance, but after a minute or two, I manage to doze off. Not quite awake, not quite asleep...

— Chapter 2: Problem Solving

When the slow, scraping steps of an approaching individual echo lightly down the corridor, I snap to alert. The sound of a man's ragged breathing gets louder by the second. Step, scrape, pause, repeat. The noise gets closer at an uneven pace, as if moving is a struggle. It goes like this for a good minute before the body of Commander Forchester slams against the beams, making the door rattle. To be frank, he looks like shit; Half his left ear is missing and his arms are covered in deep cuts. A steady stream of blood-tinged drool flecks from his mouth and drips in long strands off his chin, a complement to the bloody and crazed stare he's directing at me, accompanied by a vile sneer that reveals several missing teeth and more blood. The whole thing comes together to paint a picture of a man mad from desperation-fed despair, misguided loathing and paranoia.

"Yooooou-y-y," he snarls forcing his head against the gap in the bars as if trying to push his way through, "Your fault! MY MEN ARE DEAD!"

The last phrase he howls, swinging his sword wildly through the bars, trying to reach me with the edge or tip. I shrink back on reflex, although there's no way he can physically reach me at this distance as long as the cell door is blocking him.

"PAY! Fucking traitor!" He's getting louder, but his body isn't keeping up with his rage, so his flailing is quickly slowing. After a few more attempts to gut me he quiets down, only to start sobbing. That in turn quiets down, until his body jolts then slackens. Likely dead, with those wounds. It's without a doubt the most pathetic thing I have ever seen.

"Outside of a mirror anyway," I mutter before grimacing, "That was in poor taste. Still, its not a pretty way to go."

I stand up, wincing at the aches from sitting on solid stone for the past half hour or so. I don't think he has the cell key on him, or i'd be looking down at a sword in my throat by now. He wasn't thinking clearly enough for that. What I want is his sword, which is hanging limp in his hand.

I lean over and pry it loose from his fingers. The handle is a little slick with sweat and blood, still bearing it's owner's warmth. Kind of disgusting, to be honest. But its a sword I didn't have 5 minutes ago, so i can't really complain. It's heavier than the wooden bokken I used in aikido, but not by much. The balance isn't great for me either, but it follows standard english sword design, so it has about enough room to hold the hilt with both hands, which should help me stabilise it. Not the kind of blade i'm used to using. It's a little blunted, with two edges and a pointed tip. The idea being that's wielder can grab the blade without hurting himself but still thrust or slice to damage by applying extra force. I'm trained, at least minimally, with curved single edged blades, hence the bokken, so I'd prefer a katana or maybe a talwar. Not a scimitar, because they are incredibly difficult effectively to use if you're not on horseback. But I'm getting distracted.

I should operate on the assumption that the defence has collapsed. I have a weapon but I'm little better than an inexperienced novice in a real combat situation, so I need to avoid direct confrontations whenever I can. To say nothing of having to be willing to kill, something I'm prepared to do if necessary, but something i'd still like to avoid if I can.

Still, intuition is telling me that the attacking soldiers will be here soon, looking for the fled Commander to either capture or kill him. Which also means that they're going to find me. And then they'd probably kill me. I'm in a cell, naked apart from this blanket, so my credibility and leverage when trying to negotiate with them is non-existent. No reason to believe what I say, much less listen. So that means I have to hide my presence, as there's no way I'm going to be able to break free in time. Staring at the sword in my hand, and past that, to the corpse of Forchester; Another unpleasant idea forms in my mind. But the only workable plan I can think of on short notice with what I have to hand. No time for hesitation, it'll be gross but let's do it.

The first thing I do is remove the blanket from myself, leaving me temporarily nude. Then I take the bundled cloth and rub it into the still wet wounds of the Commander's body until the fabric is blood soaked in a large patch. Then, I arrange the now sodden blanket around myself once more, this time as a hooded cloak, with the stain visible from my chest. Next I take the sword, and pierce the bloodied area threading the blade through about 5 inches and clamping down on the blade by pressing my arm to my side in order to hold in place. It is uncomfortably warm already, but I'd best not think too hard about why that might be the case. Next I use my free arm and shove the corpse away from the bars using a fair bit of strength and some few seconds of effort to dislodge his wedged in face. The body crumples. The less attention anyone gives my cell, the better. And finally, I lower myself against the back wall, twisting slightly to the left to obscure the exact location of the 'stab wound' whilst leting my head go forward, slack, pulling the hood down to cover my eyes. As I hear brisk footsteps start to head into the corridor, I pray that whoever looks at this scene decides to take the two dead bodies at face value. This act would struggle to fool even a child. But trickery such as this only works so long as the intended victims don't know that there is, in fact, a trick. So I have a small bit of confidence in their laziness. However, if they open the cell to check who I am, the illusion will fall to pieces. And well, I do still have a sword. But honestly, the best I could hope to muster is make them flinch back, as any trained fighter will crush me without the odds stacked heavily in my favour. From this position I'd barely be able to grab the hilt of this prop, before their hilt is uncomfortably close to my breast. They'd have stabbed me, I mean.

My ruminating almost makes me forget that there's someone coming. Odds are high its not a member of the local garrison, but regardless, I take a deep, quiet breath. I can't fuck this up now.

"Yeah, here he is. Go get his head for the Prin-I mean the Queen. She'll want proof the job's done. I'll go let the Captain know." Says one voice, addressing another man.

"Why do I have to do it, Gus?" The other man complains, "We don't even have a sack or anything to hold it."

Gus snorts, "Because, you ungrateful sow, you owe me for covering for you with your wife when you went out to hump that little flirt Wizzica."

"Ugh, fine. But I still don't see you giving me a bag for it."

"Check the cell. Maybe there's some supplies stored in there. With most the townsfolk gone, not like they need it for prisoners." Gus explains to his friend. Moment of truth. A bead of cold sweat slides down my sides from my armpits.

"Sure, sure..what? Hey, there's someone in here after all." The unnamed second man exclaims.

"Is there? Lemme see," Gus says, accompanied by the sound of shuffling feet, "Shit, there is. Looks like the old bastard decided to take the poor guy across the soul rift with him. Wonder why. Maybe he felt it'd be lonely, and wanted a little company."

The other man laughs, "Fucked if I know. Think we can use that blanket he's got?"

Shit. Shitshitshit.

"Nah. Leave it. Don't seem like there's a key around anyway. Just grab the head and pick a sheet from the barracks on the way out, I say. Besides, I don't wanna touch some beggar's corpse. Probably filthy."  Gus rejects the idea, mercifully. I don't like the insinuation i'm some leprous vagabond, but my pride will heal. Decapitated heads won't. I let my indignation fade, as the pair loses interest.

"Anyway, chop chop!" Gus leaves, jogging down the corridor laughing like he's some comedic savant.

"Ugh. He better buy me a round when we get back to the capital," The man complains, "Now, how am I gonna do this..? Do I just go at it like a saw or hit it real hard and hope it cuts clean?"

Spare me the commentary please. I'm just glad my disguise means I don't have to watch.

It's not long after I think that, that I hear grunting noises. And some more unpleasant ones. Seems like he's sawing it off with his sword, if i'm not mistaken. An unenviable task, to be sure. If I could see what was happening I'd probably by heaving right now, but as it is I'm trying to stay disconnected for however long it takes for him to leave. His absent-minded whistling as he works helps distract me. Not a tune I recognise, but I can still tell he's hilariously off-key.

"Damn, that was a lot harder work than I thought it would be. Bastard owes me three rounds for this now," The man moans, neglecting to acknowledge that he was blackmailed into doing this to begin with, so it'd be incredibly unlikely his friend would agree to it.

"Yuck, it's dripping everywhere. Gotta get a sack for this thing..." Thanks for that image. Thanks ever so much. Thank you.

His prize acquired, I hear him walk quickly away. I allow myself to breathe a little easier, but refrain from moving, in case someone else shows up or they double back for something they forgot. But my bluff appears to have paid off.

I wait a few minutes, just to make sure, before relaxing - the sword clatters on the floor now that my arm has lost it's tension and the blade has lost it's support - Allowing me to take a deep breath.

"Not out of the woods yet. Or I mean, the cell. Better get to work on the door," I mutter, pulling myself to my feet and rolling out the crick in my neck. The plan, such as it is, is similar to what the guy who just left had. I bend down and take up the sword by the blade, inspecting the edge again. As I observed previously, it's a little blunted compared to the common expectation of a sharp edged weapon - the reason being that too fine an edge will lead to more nicks and dents, which leads to the blade shattering at crucial moments, especially with poor quality metal. With the position it's former wielder held, it shouldn't be a terrible weapon, but I've not the experience to judge any which way. Regardless, it looks like it will be sharp enough for me to use it as a makeshift bandsaw on the wooden cell door. Obviously, metal is more secure, but depending on the prosperity of this country, it might be too expensive when used to lock away sword-less prisoners. Hence the wood.

I once again take the edge of the blanket, then hold the end of the sword using it to protect my right palm, then walk to the door to judge how much i'll need to cut. I judge it to be about two 20cm beams, with four cuts. Probably take around 5-10 minutes.

Looking past the bars into the corridor, I gag on reflex at the sight of the now headless Commander's corpse. Blood has start pooling near the stump, but the real kicker is the mess that stump is in. All mangled flesh and exposed bone. Disgusting. And also almost my fate.

"Let's...get to work..."

—

My estimate proves to be valid, barely, the task takes me about 30 minutes by my estimate. Because it seems I rather underestimated the sturdiness of the wood, as even whacking the beams with all my strength barely left a dent in the material's surface. What I thought to be some poorly put together oak beams may not be the same variety of tree I assumed it was, but a hardier native breed. That would stand to reason given the existence of that strange mount. It also explains why it was used in the door's construction to begin with. That or their carpenters have some treatment method that makes it feel like i'm trying to grind through solid rock with a twig.

This is all beside the point however, as what I'm left with is a workable exit from my confinement and sore arms.

"A lot of effort for such a simple thing. Time I left. He's..starting to smell." I groan, squeezing through the hole, using my hands to hold the floor for support.

Indeed, the smell is faint but undeniable, due to the blood beginning to congeal and dry. The puddle of blood is relatively small. If I had to guess its because his blood had stopped flowing before his neck was carved open. Small mercy for him to have succumbed to his wounds than to wake screaming as a sword is slowly sawing through your throat.

"Oh, I am just a bundle of joy today. Thanks for that image, brain. No problem, me.."

I roll my eyes then take a closer look at the corpse. I don't think the soldiers looted his body - whether because they didn't think to or had some reason not to, I'll never know. His body is undisturbed aside from the painfully obvious. His clothes are tattered, torn and bloodstained, as is most of his armour. I do, however, note that the shoulder guards and steel plated leather boots are intact, if scuffed from battle. But as much as I'd like a pair of shoes, his are both too large for me, and too heavy. The metal doesn't look like it would make moving around quietly easy, either. I decide to take the shoulder pads, though. If I pick up some basic clothing I should be able to wear them without them chafing too much, and the extra engraving work may mean they're valuable enough to be worth selling if I decide money is more important than shoulder safety. There doesn't look to be anything else of value on him worth taking. Which stands to reason given he just went into battle. Although, in spite of that I don't see the knife he had before, or a scabbard for this sword. Must have lost the knife and taken the sword from someone else. Guess this sword is less valuable than I thought?

"Whatever, sword's a sword. Stick the thing you want dead with the pointy end. Not gonna pretend to be an expert on smithing, just know scraps of trivia which may not even apply to this world. Same for a lot of shit I know, really. Gonna be flying by the seat of my non-existent pants on intuition alone till I find some info."

I look up and down the corridor, next. Back the way I came is the front entrance, and the direction the two soldiers went. Under normal circumstances, prudence would dictate I go the other direction. But that direction is a dead end, with only a couple more empty cells. I was the only prisoner down here. On my own then.

"They've probably already left, and the rest of the soldiers will be busy looting the town. Even if this is a military compound, the weapons and armour here, while potentially valuable, are bulky and difficult to find buyers for. Better to sack residences and shops for small trinkets. But their greed will only distract them for so long, and officers will probably want to check this place for information." I muse, walking along the corridor.

"That is however, naught but conjecture on my part. I don't know what discipline is like in their ranks, nor do I know why they attacked this place to begin with. All I know is that some princess wanted that crazed buffoon's severed head. Or something. Was too busy trying to be a convincing corpse to pay much attention to them."

I shake my head and sigh. At the end of the corridor, it turns right toward the interrogation room from earlier. I vaguely remember the way out, but I don't want to leave without getting some equipment for myself. Gus mentioned a barracks being on the way out, so looking at it like that I can follow the trail of blood droplets left by the severed head the other guy was holding. A gruesome trail of breadcrumbs, but no less convenient.

Continuing on a little more cautiously, I stick my head into the interrogation room as I pass it. I can see that the Nail is still on the table from when the Guard released me of my attachment to those gloves stuck to the table. My hands are kind of full holding this sword and the shoulderpads, so I make a mental note to come back here with a bag and grab it. Probably worth a bit of dosh. I might also be able to make use of it's lie detecting properties as well, to a degree. Maybe.

The trail continues further past a storeroom full of timber which I ignore, and towards another door up ahead. Behind it should be the main hall. Which means the barracks is on the other side of the building, or upstairs. To confirm I look around a bit and spot a splotch of blood near to a corridor across from where I'm standing. I doubt they're still there, but if thats the barracks, then it occurs to me that the officers might have separate quarters upstairs. Which would suggest better quality clothes - or at least better laundered.

"I probably shouldn't waste time searching up there, but my vanity is calling out for decent trousers and a shirt that doesn't itch like this blanket."

Mind made up, I detour towards the staircase rising up along the furthest wall, shuffling past the scattered stools.

—

When climbing the stairs, I keep my profile lowered to a crouch and take each step with both hands and feet to prevent creaking floorboards giving me away.near the top is a latticed bannister, through which I can see a large circular table surrounded by markedly fancier furnishings. Highbacked chairs - with cushioning, even - large but somewhat amateurish tapestries of battlefields and a dresser with a clear glass decanter mostly drained of it's alcoholic contents. The left wall has two doors whilst the right wall has three.

Having confirmed that there's nobody present, I stand up and slowly ascend the last few steps. The table which dominates this large room has a large stitched leather covering, upon which is depicted a portion of a continent I predictably do not recognise. Landmarks and terrain are distinguished by a faded red dye that could very well be based in the blood of whatever animal the skins came from. There are two countries represented on the map: Stoken Majora and Dren.

"Add another thing to the uncomfortable realisation pile, I can fluently read this gibberish," I scowl. It takes me a moment to notice the disconnect between what i'm seeing and what i'm understanding is seen. It requires me to squint a little, but the language the map is annotated with is most certainly not one I should be familiar with, let alone to the point of fluency. Added to that the fact that I don't recognise the countries or landmass depicted -something I'd guessed already, but now see confirmed - and I just feel more anxiety piling in.

"Make room prior stress, we're expecting company.."

I sigh. Again. Going to be be doing a lot of that, I feel. But on the bright side, I don't have to worry about learning a new language, right? So there's that, at least. I was never great at learning new languages, something my grades at school eventually confirmed. Makes me wonder if the language we're speaking is really English, too. I'll have to try the same trick with the writing the next time I talk to someone.

Interesting information, all that aside. Going off what the locals were saying and the lack of landmarks on the Dren side of the map I appear to be in Stoken Majora. There's ocean to the south(?) of the country and mountains to the north and west. But I have no idea where I am on this map. No 'You Are Here' or any of those little figurines.

"I'll just have to remember this for later. Does not appear as though cartography is very advanced in this country and it's too bulky to take with me. I mean it is basically a carpet. However, if this is a sort of war room there might be documents around that can tell me about the area. Gotta be scout reports, right? Or maybe not. Literacy is probably non-existent below the offficers, huh. Shit, there goes that idea..." I move around the room, poking into the cabinets as I ramble, before moving into the first room on the right side.

It's a toilet. Or, to be more accurate, a pot beneath a slab of wood going between two walls. There's a bundle of some stalked herb dangling from the ceiling tied in string. Smells nice. Also, not what I want right now.

"Neeeext!" I shout, slamming the door behind me and heading to the next door down. This one appears to be locked so I write it off as unimportant without a key to unlock it or some reason to want to break it down. I may be healthier, but i'm not really all that much stronger, if the cell door was any indication. The next room is home to a modest number of barrels and sealed crates, all bearing a coat of arms burned into the wood depicting a sword shaped like a lightning bolt driven through an open palm, surrounded by a circle of leafy vine. Cracking one barrel  open with the pommel of my sword reveals a large quantity of unprocessed grain. Basically worthless to me. I haven't the upper body strength to carry one by myself, and I don't have any idea what i'd do with any of this if I could. Maybe if I could steal a wagon I could load it up and try my hand at being a merchant, but that is not a good idea. The gate area where those wagons and carriages were parked is no doubt swarming with soldiers out for peasant blood. Moving on.

The next door I try opens after a good shove. Looks like its a bedroom and study. Though it smells of dude sweat, the room is pretty fancy. As in, there's furniture other than a bed and table. Not much, but the presence of a rug, chest and ornate wardrobe give this room a distinctly lived-in feel that only comes from a person with money who only cares for their own comfort.

Under the bed frame is a few pairs of boots in different styles and states of wear as well as a thick layer of dust and hairs. Not a very thorough cleaner this guy. I pock out a pair of slightly smaller brown boots that look clise to my size and put them to one side. They aren't anything special to look at, just hard-leather ankle-high boots with straps and buckles across the foot and leg areas.

The wardrobe in the corner stinks to high heaven of mustiness and some sort of herbal perfume I presume to function like mothballs. It's by no means full, only a few undyed shirts and trousers, with an empty linen rucksack sat in the bottom. The clothes are a bit big, but that's easily fixed by applying my most reliable solution of late: Sword. I cut off the excess fabric around the cuffs of 2 shirts and the end of two pairs of brownish-grey leggings. The ends are a bit frayed from the makeshift tailoring job but there's enough cut off fabric to wrap my feet a little as a stand-in for socks, which will help a little with the new shoes and my already sore feet. End result being that i'm no longer naked. If missing some underwear, but i'll take what I can get, and to be honest, I am not in a hurry to put this stranger's junk restraint on my junk. I have standards.

"I feel like people again. Goodbye, bloodstained and itchy poncho, hello civilised clothing that I butchered with a sword to fit my scrawny body."

I discard the blanket on the bed and pick up my new rucksack, then shove the other set of clothes in along with The Nail, as well as the writing implements on the desk and leather/string-bound books. I'll read them later.

Finally I come to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. It's locked, but I manage to wrench it open by using my sword as a crowbar. There's not much in here, just a bottle of half-finished liquor, miscellaneous rubbish and a small pouch of coins which I immediately dump into my bag. I consider leaving the alcohol as I don't drink, and I need my wits about me, but wisdom reminds me that it could be useful as disinfectant or to start a fire. Thusly resolved, I place the bottle in the bag as well then shoulder it.

"Seems like everything of use in here. I want to check the other rooms, but I've taken too much time as it is, and other than food and water I have everything I need to make my escape and survive the travel to the next town. But those I can forage for, so it's time for me to get out of dodge." I mutter, putting my arm through the other strap of the rucksack.

From there I quickly walk out of the room and down the staircase into the main hall, not noticing anything different I decide that my time must be running out. Leaving through the front is not an option since there's no cover at all between this building and the gateway, however, so I start making my way to the back of the building.

—