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“Best escape offer I’ve heard today. Count me in.
But if you’re going to do it it’s better now than later. We’re well after dawn already and there’ll be a breakfast bell sooner or later and then this place will be crawling with dusties.”
He nods. ”Once I begin we may not have time to speak further. First, tell me about your capacity for movement.
Can you change your height? Can you lift weight? Can you fly? Can you scale a fence or wall?"
letter-of-the-law
“Fly? No. And no one is going to be riding me anywhere if they want to keep their fingers.
"My binding keeps me at about this height. I can change it slightly”, he demonstrates. “It's like jumping, I guess, but I can do it either upwards or downwards. I can manage my way on stairs but need to be carried to get over a wall."
He pauses. "Anything else? I weigh about twelve stone."
letter-of-the-law
“Way I came in is the cargo platform in that corner. It’s noisy as hell though. Haven’t been up the staircase yonder.”
He works his hand through the cage at about chest level, palm upwards, and brings his torso flush with the bars. He lowers into a squat and prepares to drive his body upwards, forcing the horizontal piece of bar with it. He takes a deep breath and pushes.
How does it go?
The bar starts to bend upwards. Given his strength, if he’s willing to bruise his palm a bit he can detach the horizontal spur from its adjacent vertical pieces and drive it upwards until it meets the next span above. This will give him a new rectangular-ish space of around 3”x6”, and deform the adjacent links a bit to boot.
He uses the sleeves of his robe to alleviate the pressure on his bare palm and repeats the same procedure for the 3 horizontal spans to either side of that one. And then he starts working his way above and below that bar to make a Morte-sized hole.
It’s going to take ten minutes or so, but it proceeds uneventfully.
The last few were pretty easy as this horizontal span has largely separated from the vertical pieces. Evidently this structure was not built to contain a large athletic male.
letter-of-the-law
With The Nameless One holding his robe against the jagged bars to soften the passage, Morte is able to squeeze through.
"Stay close behind me and do not speak unless you have to."
He draws the robe's hood over his head and pulls it forward, shading his face. Then he walks back to the wall cupboard and draws forth a set of rags to tie around his head underneath the hood, hiding everything below the line of his eyes.
Then he pulls his robe's belt tight and makes for the staircase.
He is feeling the time pressure now, almost palpably.
The different impressions he's experienced since waking are beginning to coalesce and to point inevitably towards two conclusions: First, that he was until recently a powerful actor in the world, and second, that his agency has been dealt a crippling blow by someone or something.
From that it follows that his current entrapment within an unknown basement, urgent as it is, is not his largest concern. The greater threat is that someone has acted and is continuing to act against him, now with far greater knowledge than he has.
Where are they now? Maybe raiding a cache of his goods or slaughtering his extended family.
He poses the question to himself: If I look back at this time later, what is it that I will regret not having done?
As he approaches the staircase, suddenly he feels the air chill around him. He experiences the sensation of a muffling or muting, almost as if he is now hearing the sounds of his own footfalls from underwater. What does he do in the next three seconds?
Before him, the form of a spectral woman emerges from the doorway to the stairs. She is leaning forward, at an angle, as if standing on a surface aligned at a tilt from the floor, and her body appears to terminate abruptly below the shoulders in a perfectly vertical plane. Her shoulders are bare, and she wears a gown of some kind. She looks like a courtesan.
Her image is translucent, tinged blue, and she wears an expression of deep grief.
To Morte’s eyes, The Nameless One stops suddenly in his movements and stares at the doorway in alarm. There is no woman present.
The spirit speaks, "Is it only now that you have found your way back, my love?"
He stops abruptly and regards her, his hands contracting a fraction as if in readiness to swing a fist. "Greetings. Do you know me, spirit?"
She inhales a sharp breath.
"Could it be that the fates have ripped even me from your mind? Every inch of you, love."
Without noticing it, he is speaking more loudly than he spoke to Morte, compensating for the strange dampening quality of his senses.
"Thank you, spirit. I would speak to know you further. However I am in some danger and must be brief. I wish you to demonstrate that you know me as a man in particular and are not merely a shade bound to this sepulcher at the time of your death. First, who are you that knows me as Adahn?"
Volume still loud.
"Danger?" The voice is both wistful and ragged.
"Tell me what threatens you, dearest. I will obey you as I always have."
"Well.”
He pauses a moment.
“I may have been imprisoned or kidnapped. I was transported to this place without my leave. I cannot recall anything concerning who I am or who my friends are. If you have any aid to offer, I would accept it with gratitude. Please, spirit, what is your name?”