Chapter 15: Seeds of Escape
The cells of the Mirkwood fortress were a cold, damp tomb, their stone walls slick with moisture, the air heavy with the scent of wet stone and despair. The faint drip of water echoed, a relentless rhythm that set Mark's teeth on edge. His tunic was soaked, clinging to his lean frame, chafing his shoulders, the fabric heavy with sweat and damp. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. Dust gritted his teeth, the taste bitter, coating his dry throat. "Time to move," he thought, his modern lilt a defiant spark in this ancient prison. "Thorin's my ticket out."
He phased through the cell doors, a silent shimmer, the system's runes humming like a glitchy storm in his mind. The river's damp scent, carried on a faint breeze, hinted at his plan—the barrels in the cellar, a desperate escape he'd pulled from meta-knowledge. He glided past Fili, Dwalin, Balin, their armor clinking softly, their beards swaying in the dim light. A cracked stone in the corridor, etched with a faint rune, whispered of a prisoner's hope, its lines worn by time. Thorin sat on a stone bench in the final cell, his heavy fur cloak pulled tight, his stern gaze burning with purpose, his armor clinking with every subtle shift.
Mark solidified before him, the transition smooth but draining, his chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. Thorin's eyes widened, shock flickering across his grim face, his hand twitching toward his empty scabbard. "Don't speak," Mark whispered, voice low, urgent, cutting through the cell's silence. "They hear everything. Listen. If you want out, do exactly what I say."
Thorin's eyes narrowed, suspicion and hope warring in their depths, his cloak's fur brushing the stone, a soft, defeated sound. He nodded, a slight, grudging movement, his pride a palpable weight.
"Barrels," Mark murmured, his voice a conspiratorial hum. "In the cellar. Trust me. That's your way out."
Thorin's eyes widened, understanding dawning, his jaw tightening with grim determination. He nodded again, his gaze steady, burning with purpose. "He's in," Mark thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, grounding his racing thoughts.
[Quest: Orchestrate Escape. Reward: 300 Essence.]
[Intuition +0.5. Clever, but risky.]
The system's jab was a spark in his mind, its irony biting. Mark phased out, the damp air chilling his ghostly form, his heart racing with the thrill of conspiracy. "This better work," he thought, his moral hypocrisy gnawing at him—using Thorin to control the timeline, a survivor's trick he wasn't proud of, like Rick Grimes plotting a risky escape. The cracked rune watched silently, its faded lines a reminder of the stakes, the cell's chill seeping into his bones.
In the dining hall, Mark found Tauriel by a window, her red hair glowing in the torchlight, her leather armor creaking as she turned, her green eyes distant, thoughtful. The air was warm, heavy with the honeyed scent of elven bread and the tart bite of wine, a false comfort in the fortress's chill. He needed to fix their bond, to show her he wasn't just a liar. He focused on Repulsion Field, a gentle pulse of energy, aiming at a table of dishes. The plates rattled, then clattered, a chaotic storm of ceramic and silverware, a goblet of wine tumbling into his hand, the liquid sloshing, tart and sharp.
Tauriel spun, her eyes wide, then softening, a melodic laugh escaping, bright and clear, cutting through the hall's tension like a blade. "Graceful," she teased, her smirk playful, her gaze warm, unguarded.
"I try," Mark said, grinning, winking, his modern lilt a spark in the tension, his heart lighter despite the ache in his chest.
[Tauriel Trust +10%. Finally, a win.]
The system's jab was a spark, but her laugh was a victory, a fragile bond growing stronger, like allies sharing a rare moment in a ruined world. The ache tightened his chest, but he shoved it down, rubbing his wrist, the sting grounding his thoughts.
A faint shift in the air, a whisper of movement, stirred the hall. Mark's gaze darted, finding nothing, but his meta-knowledge screamed—Bilbo, unseen, moving with the Ring's power. The faint rustle of a cloak, the soft scuff of footsteps, echoed in the silence, a ghost in the wind. "He's planning something," Mark thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, the system's runes pulsing faintly.
[Intuition +0.3. Invisible trouble brewing.]
In a quiet moment, Mark lingered by a pillar, its surface etched with a faded stag, its antlers chipped, a silent story of a hunt long past. The hall was silent, save for the distant clink of goblets, the wine's aroma lingering like a false promise. The escape was coming, and he had a plan, a power, and a bond worth fighting for. His wrist stung as he rubbed it, the raw skin a sharp reminder of his purpose, his resolve hardening despite the hall's chill and the shadow of his own hypocrisy.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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