I'll Give You Mercy

Dungeons, like any other, were all the same and filled with the average stereotypes. They were cold, dark and wet. They smelt of mildew and decay. Next to you may be a skeleton. Perhaps a corpse if you were lucky. Seryale had been in hundred of them. He escaped each time. Living conditions in these places were below average and the melancholy void draped the walls. You were going to die in there, starving and rotting or to be lead to torture and death. That was only the real ways to escape besides breaking out. The gods were the ones behind the blessing if every you were set free. But that just wasn’t the case.

Seryale had appeared before the dungeon doors without a word or a shadow. He didn’t have to travel long. All it took was some ‘pixie dust’.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he accosted casually, gracefully waving his hand. He was in a dark gray cloak and his face was somewhat hidden under it’s hood. He smiled softly and his deep gray eyes that matched his cloak seemed to be black. However, his blue tattoo marks under his eyes seemed to glimmer in illumination with the torches.

The guards stared at him a little dumbfounded. The one to the right scratched his head.
“Um… I don’t remember you a few seconds ago,” said the guard to the left.
“Oh? Well, pardon me, but when I came here, you two were asleep.”
“I don’t remember falling asleep…” mumbled the one to the right. The left guard elbowed him in the ribs. He made a slight sound of pain that resembled an ‘Oof’.
“Believe me, you were. I don’t think I’ll have to report this to the governor, do I? Pity such men of ranks would be fired the next morning.” He trailed off.
The two guards looked at each other. Of course when the visitor said ‘fired’ it meant ‘put to death’. Larkin was known to do away with those who slept on the job. Anything that displeased him would be sent away and be tortured or beheaded.

“What say your business, stranger?”
“The governor sent me to lead one of the prisoners to the court. He wishes to view a beheading.”
The guards looked each other. This wasn’t something Larkin would do. But dare they question the man in the cloak; they would probably end up as the ones who’d loose their heads.
The guard on the left opened the chamber doors. Seryale nodded and entered.

The doors shut behind him while the sorcerer set down the endless pathway of slippery, stone stairs. The echoes of screams bounced off the walls and the shadowy figures loomed while the torches flickered with his sweeping movement. He enjoyed the sounds of pain. He used to torture many and thirsted for their blood. He was drunk off the scent and a small smirk twitched unto his young face. His footsteps were barely heard on these steps for the anguish wails and screams continued.

He finally reached the end of the stairs and met up with another two guards. Again he explained that Larkin wanted to view a beheading and they let him through.

Down the halls we glided, his cloak floating behind him. The continuous sounds of pain echoed through the endless pathways. Larkin’s dungeons were full of endless passages. It was cleverly built like a maze. It took Seryale some adjusting to because he kept reaching a few dead ends.

On his final dead end, he turned and muttered how he was wasting time.
Seryale raised his arm and chanted an incantation while tracing invisible figures with his hand.
“Lead me to the girl.”
The invisible figures shone now as a blue light and directed him as a compass. As he stalked by, many arms were grabbing out for his mercy. They recognized his powers and saw him as a savior. Wails of help, begging of forgiveness continued. He ignored them and smacked a few of their hands away. He didn’t want any of their germs on him for he was much higher. He’d hiss at them and say insulting names, which shut them up along the way.

“Devil!” one of them spat as Seryale journeyed on.

The compass hologram stopped in front of a cell and disappeared into a cloud of smoke, fragrant of jasmine incense. There was a girl, wailing, screaming, and flapping her arms wildly to the window. Like the others she cried for her innocence, she begged forgiveness. Seryale hesitated if this was really her but he recognized he long black hair from many visions he had.

“Stop your wailing, wretched brat.” He placed his hand on the lock and it sprung open. She turned wildly around and stared at him with an indescribable expression. Seryale drew out his hand to her. “I’ve come to set you free.”