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There's five steps from one end of the cell to the other. Count every one. One corner is covered with damp hay. A wooden pail, unceremoniously emptied on ground every few days, is for human refuse. Light filters in through uncertain torches, propped up against the hallway outside at irregular intervals. No sense of day or night exists.
When the guard, a brutish kid with mouse-like eyes and hobby knives, decides to feed you, it comes with a sadistic beating. You used to be fairly muscular, disciplined. But the past few months have eroded that human part of you away, living behind an emaciated, wiry anima clothed in torn fabric robes.
You're watching your cell mate take his last breathes. The old man was dumped in with you a few days ago, missing teeth and bleeding from his ears. Must have been a beggar, picked up off the street. Wiry, knotted scars lace his neck and back. Didn't have an easy life. At first you gave him all the food, then half-rations, then one-thirds. He stopped eating over time, barely conscious enough to swallow. His breathing eventually declines, shallows, and parts. You reach over and close his eyes.
You were a temple kid, left behind as a cradle. There must be a prayer for this kind of moment, but soft thoughts elude you. Your hands involuntarily clench.
A little light shines through. Can't be outside—too deep underground. The lights coming from the old beggar's corpse. The broken body shines with a faint, shimmering outline and, as you reach over, the light beneath your hand intensifies, a firefly flicker to an intense torch.
You reach over and grasp the man's:
> Hand
> Leg
> Temple
> Chest
> [Write in]
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>>568014
> Hand
>>
>>568014
>Chest
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>>568263
Supporting.
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>>568263
Supporting
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>>568014
> Cro-
I mean
>Chest
>>
DICK haha lole xD
Seriously though,
>Chest
>>
Fingers graze the old man's torso. Light intensifies, disparate glow condensing into solid matter. Part of you wants to pull back, retract your fingers, preservation instinct. Something tells you to continue, hold steady for longer. You whisper a prayer—not a very complicated one, but something familiar and comforting.
Yellow flickers trail up your finger and arm, a dense interconnected stream of color. They dance onto your chest, slipping into skin atop your sternum, lungs, heart and disappearing into your body. Long, ugly cuts that never seemed to heal in the dank air pulled close, your chest growing taut and firm.
You were a temple boy, but your church practiced physical orthodoxy. So you were taught there was no soul, no spirit. All things, all matters of human existence, were related to the body, divine form of God's will and implementation. Thought and emotion and life were tied with our organs and tissues.
So what was this?
Stand. The pains—dull aches and sharp cuts—that crossed your upper body have dissipated. Although the wounds on your arms and legs and neck linger, their weight seems lessened. They are less debilitating. Breathing is easier, smoother, and your heartbeat feels slow and steady, despite the uncertainty and shock that dances in your mind. Your constitution, weakened by months of ill treatment and poor nutrition, seems to be what it was when you were at physical peak, if not even better. You think about doing some exercises to test your stamina, then think better of it.
A iron gate clangs open. Heavy, steel-toe boots descending a short flight of stairs. The guard is returning with the evening's meal and beating. You have options. Your chest surges with courage and newfound strength, thoughts of retribution and exact punishment. You had once prided yourself on a disciplined, zen-like demeanor, tactical strength. But now, for some reason, all you can think about is glorious revenge.
> Pretend to be asleep, waiting for an opportune moment
> Entertain a conversation, assessing the guard
> Surprise and attack him head on, striking fiercely and suddenly
> [Write in]
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>>571444
>Entertain a conversation, assessing the guard
And if anybody asks about the old man, tell them he's just unconscious.
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>>571444
> Surprise and attack him head on, striking fiercely and suddenly
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>>571486
Seconded
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>>571486
Third
>>
You prop yourself against the cell's back corner, opposite the old man. Obscured by dusky low torchlight, you and the man are both formless entities, silhouettes with a barest hint of substance. Focus your breathing; try to calm your heart rate, the twitch impulse to attack the guard with your fists and elbows as soon as he bangs open the cell's wrought iron-wood door.
He kicks over the waste bucket, urine and fluids sloshing across the floor. A weighted cudgel in his left hand. No food today. He slams it against the wall, a loud, splitting crack.
"Hope you've been liking the company," he says.
"Not a talker." You haven't spoken for many weeks and your raised voice is more of a crackle, rough and hoarse.
He doesn't ask about the old man. He's been lying in that same corner, identical position, for the past few days. States of life barely register to the guard—it's clear that you're the one he's after, trying to break.
You had deduced that you had been apart of a slave deal gone bad, kept in purgatory state until broken negotiations mended themselves or detached completely. If the latter happened, you have no doubt your body, cut into two or more pieces, would end up in a nearby swamp after the slavers moved out and on.
The guard confidently strides toward you and, using one arm as leverage, presses his boot into your chest, forcing you back against the wall corners. He's a heavyset man, with thick wrists and check and low center of gravity. The pain in your chest twists a few times. He grinds his foot against you, testing the tensile strength of your ribs. You aren't sure if his sadism is pleasure or the alleviation of boredom.
You try to appear weak and supple, malnourished frame languishing in darkness. But your heart roars thunder into your ears, an almost narcotic thirst for vengeance. A heat, little fire, burns in your chest.
> Goad him further, contain yourself, bide time
> Strike his legs, maneuvering to knock him off balance
> Tense your chest and attack frontally
> [Write in]
Consider your priorities and values in combat. [Order the list from most important to least.]:
> Brutality
> Righteousness
> Vengeance
>
>
>
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>>575287
> Strike his legs, maneuvering to knock him off balance
>righteousness
>vengeance
>brutality
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>>575287
> Brutality
> Righteousness
> Vengeance
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>>575500
Supporting
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>>575287
>Tense your chest and attack frontally
Put your rage to the test and intimidate him against his own strength.
>Vengeance
>Brutality
>Righteousness
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>>575500
I vote for this
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>>575287
>Strike his legs. maneuvering to knock him off balance
>Brutality
>Vengeance
>Rightousness
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>>575287
You still kickin, OP?
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>>582766
OP died I guess...
RIP...
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