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[i]I am completely and utterly alone…[/i]

The chamber was dank, the uncomfortable plop of filthy water dripping from the grungy ceiling down to the unwashed floor making a pitter-patter more torturous than any suffering the prisoner had ever experienced. In the corner his own excrement began to pile up and fill the room with its vile odor, choking any chance at a full breath despite great desperation to do so. The other corner, the second of four that he didn’t occupy or use as a sleeping spot, contained the remains of what pitiful scraps he was provided for food. Beneath the iron shod door was the single branch of light he was afforded beyond when the door was opened to give him his rare meal. The beam was in of itself both a blessing and a curse, for the fires outside always burned and he was never spared a moment in the dark to truly fall asleep.

It had been an uncountable amount of time from when he had first been thrown within the confines of this dreadful prison and by now he knew very well he had no hope of trusting his current count. The guards made everything difficult by their rare retrieval of food and at a certain point he had begun to question his sanity. Occasionally time would feel warped and moments between the very minimal human interaction he received felt almost instantaneous, though he knew this was a lie his psyche told him to keep him together. 

He appreciated the lie, to be honest.

Welts and bruises were beginning to heal from the last serious beating he received, his mind imagining them yellowing by now as his body used every scrap of stored energy to repair itself. Unfortunately, he could tell he wasn’t healing as well as he had in the past; any reserves he had were all but spent and now his wracked figure struggled to maintain him. At one point he had fashioned a slicing implement from a piece of bone carelessly left within a small chunk of meat given to him, in a vain attempt to convince even himself that escape was possible. Thoughts had turned to suicide but something deep within him stayed his hand, despite all evidence pointing to a loss of hope. Several times he’d planned the attempt, even getting so far as to raise the slicer to his throat, but each time he had fallen short.

“Was that bravery on my part?” he mumbled, voice rasping from two days being denied a drink, “Or just cowardice.”

A rapping at the door and the heavy clunk of locks being rotated caught his attention and the door opened, a chain visible on the other side keeping it from widening his escape avenue too far. There was a rapid muttering between two voices before the chain was rolled back and one of the guards stepped through, back lit by the fires outside. Behind him another figure glowered though their visages were hidden by the lack of forelight; the man admitted he only ASSUMED the second guard was glowering. The clatter of tin as another bowl of muck hit the floor, a life giving gruel in a most unfortunate manner. Much to his disappointment, however, the man did not hear the sound of liquid being poured. As they began to turn to leave he spoke up out of turn, only realizing his mistake halfway through the sentence.

“W-Water, p-ple-” 

His attempt was rewarded with a strike to the face as the sole of a heavy boot slammed into his forehead and drove his head into the wall. There was a sickening crack as he slackened and fell, conscious but dazed to the extreme. A cruel laugh filled the air as the door was closed behind them and the man was left huffing and shivering in an attempt to regain composure. The heavy locks slammed back into place, that soul crushing [b]clunk[/b], and once more the man was trapped inside. Time passed in splashes and waves, the decrepit occasionally reaching a little bit farther for the bowl but failing to quite reach. His fingers gentle pulled at the stones, like her could perhaps ball it up like a piece of fabric and draw the bowl closer, but it seemed the flagstones weren’t particularly interested in that.

“Gods, why have you done this…”

Fingers caught the edge of the bowl, plunking into the evidently warm and surprisingly hearty bowl of what felt like ACTUAL stew. The man’s eyes went wide despite still being slumped over himself, face down on the rock. [i][b]ACTUAL[/b] stew.[/i] He jolted up with new energy, pulling the bowl to him with the caution of a man unwilling to lose a single drop. He practically shoveled the food into his mouth, the richness of the bounty almost too much for him. He was careful with every motion, making sure not to lose anything of his meal, while simultaneously enjoying every mouthful of luscious meat, vegetables, and other, starchier things. By his fifth bite he stopped, staring down at it, incredulous; maybe he really had gone insane.

Then water began to pour.

His heart dropped into his stomach as the sound of his cup being filled echoed across the walls, a blessed auditory adventure on any normal hour but one that meant something deeply dreadful in this moment. He wasn’t alone. With shaking hands he slowly rose his head from its prone position above the bowl, eyes refusing to wander as they remained trapped in their sockets. He could hear his heart roaring in his chest, practically threatening to slam its way free through bone, meat, and skin. Framed by the light creeping out beneath the door was a figure, a man. His mind flashed with thoughts, trying to remember if both guards had left, terrified why he was receiving these gifts now. Was this the end?

[color=ed1c24]“Don’t fret, Ursare,”[/color] came the first retort of the figure, a voice harsh in timber but filled with benevolence that practically dripped from every word, [color=ed1c24]”You’re in good hands, brother.”[/color]

Ursare. That was his name. A shock of hearing it flushed through him, a rush of energy that seemed to roll outwards in all directions from his heart. He hadn’t heard that since his wife had said it, before he had been thrown into this hell. Memories of his wife flashed through his mind as the stew seemed to fulfill him even more, satisfying his body’s needs like no other. Memories of them laughing even during the horrors of the end, of the meagre home they loved, of the family they planned on building. Memories turned dark for an instant, of her being taken from him, her cold body, the dirt being tossed over her. Moments later and those thoughts were pushed from his head, as if some force within him labored to drive him elsewhere. The men who took her from him, the men who put him here, their cruel laughter and the lash of their clubs, the sting of bruises and welts and scars inflicted. As he thought, he ate, and each bite reinvigorated another part of his mind. Suddenly the cup of water hovered before him, held loosely by the man who had seamlessly arrived to crouch before him. 

[color=ed1c24]”Drink up, my man,”[/color] he spoke again, the gentlest of embers smoldering in his tone, [color=ed1c24]”You look like death.”[/color]

A flash of light and Ursare looked away, blinded for a moment before looking back to see the figure in his full definition. A shock of orange hair caught his attention first, bedraggled and salted with grey hairs. The man looked old, disheveled, and frankly as in shitty condition as he was. His beard and mustache had clearly grown unkempt and a similar set of bruises and blemishes marked his skin, clearly denoting he was in similarly dire straits. Finally, a metal prisoner’s collar sat on the man’s neck, with a busted link of chain showing that he had somehow been freed.  A match, the source of the new light, was pinned between his thumb and index finger as he held it aloft before him, his other grimy hand clasping the proffered tin cup. Ursare set his bowl aside carefully and took the cup while he observed the figure, looking him up and down. How was it that he was here?

“H-How did you get in here?”

In response, the man smiled.

[i]Fuck.[/i]

Despite all the wear and tear across his features, the bedraggled rags he wore as clothes, and the grime that caked nearly every part of him, that fucking smile was perfect. Every tooth aligned with the next as if set there by a god, and the pearly whiteness could practically blind. There was the slightest gap between the upper and lower teeth as he grinned, revealing a black line that served to make turn his smile into a staccato of infectious energy. Ursare had never seen anything like it in his entire life.

[color=ed1c24]”Hard work, a’lotta sweat,”[/color] the indigent chattered, his jaws moving perfectly to keep that grin going despite speaking, [color=ed1c24]”a little blood, and a just a tiche of [i]ambition[/i].”[/color] The emphasis on ambition caught in Ursare’s mind and flashes of his own plans reached him. His eyes darted to his “blade” but it was nowhere to be found. His eyes flashed back and in the now free hand of the indigent was held the presumably deadly implement. 

“I…”

[color=ed1c24]”Don’t need to explain anything to me, pal. Relax, my lips are sealed; it’s solid handiwork, by the way.”[/color]

Ursare stared with wide eyes, looking at the yellowed gaze of the prisoner and noticing spark of red dancing in his iris. He really was going insane. Regardless, there was kindness in those eyes, a promise of things to come. Ursare couldn’t help but feel trust flash over him, though doubt still ate at the edges of his mind. With surprisingly little effort he was able to lift himself up to a full sitting position, not feeling the aches and pains of those movements that had been with him even minutes before. With concerted effort he gulped down the water, quaffing a thirst unlike any other he’d felt before. A cool, refreshing wave washed through him and a heavy sigh let loose as he finished the cup. The entrapped vagabond continued to smile. He was turning the cutter in his hand, weighing it.

[color=ed1c24]”Tell you what, since we’re pals and all.”[/color] By now Ursare was sure he was seeing sparks of red dancing in the man’s eyes, as if the sclera was barely containing crimson lightning. It unnerved and invigorated Ursare in equal measure, like he could see the internal drive of the man.

[color=ed1c24]”I’ll trade you. No handouts, either; a good, even trade. My own handiwork.”[/color]

With that he produced an item of his own, a shard of the color red that seemed to tear at Ursare’s vision. It was the platonic icon of the color crimson as it was held, suspended before him, before slowly taking on a more metallic sheen. As it was held forth the white smile of Ursare’s new benefactor shone behind it, producing an odd light that both frightened and invigorated Ursare. Trembling hands reached out to grasp the weapon, taking it into both as his “friend” bowed low, gladly offering it. It felt good in his hand as he slowly stood, eyes staring deep into the weapon’s edge to see a reflection of himself. He looked healthier, fitter, and ferocious in the reflection, staring into the weapon. Within was contained all the drive he needed to make that final push, dreams and fantasies he’d played through for weeks dancing in front of his eyes now within his grasp. Ursare didn’t even notice that his own bone-edged slicer was gone, evaporated into nothingness in the hands of the god. A red glow emanated from him as he stepped forward to the door, the man-god bowing low with one hand on the door. 

[color=ed1c24][i][b]Clunk[/b][/i][/color]

That beloved sound. The lock released itself and with a tug by his new found friend the door swung open. Though the torches burned brightly down the hallway Ursare didn’t even flinch, as if his eyes were already more than used to the light. His heart beat pounded in his skull as time seemed to move slowly, long and deliberate strides speeding his way down the hall. The first guard, an ugly bastard, with a unibrow and an ugly smashed eye, turned and began to shout. 

The shiv entered his throat faster than he could fill his lungs to yell, plunging through his neck and exploding out the other side. Gruesome arterial gore ripped outwards, erupting in a pillar of blood to shower Ursare with it. The second guard, a skinny fucker with a rat-like features, lashed out with a club only to get caught be an out thrust forearm, dashed aside followed with a ferocious stab to the eye. Two more thrusts, one to the neck and another to arm pit, made the man crumple against the wall in a slumped pile. Behind Ursare strode the Transient figure, one by one tearing off locks and letting free prisoners. His smile beamed as men, invigorated from their long imprisonment, stormed out with rage boiling from their eyes. Red bolts danced almost imperceptibly between them, moving as a mob with Ursare at their fore. 

In the main hall of the stronghold Ursare continued his bloody work, contemptuous ease defining each and every kill. It was as if each man who saw him didn’t notice the weapon in his hand, didn’t see him as a healthy and dedicated killer but a disheveled, weak prisoner who somehow burst from his cell. Needless to say, each of them died. Weapons and impromptu killing were liberated or hastily assembled as Ursare’s makeshift mob spread through the tunnels, killing with more wanton direction than Ursare’s very clear direction. A chant pounded in his head now, Ursare following it with shuddering whispers that infectiously spread to others without even realizing it.

[color=ed1c24][i]I close my eyes and seize it
I clench my fists and beat it 
I light my torch and burn it 
I am the beast I worship[/i][/color]

Lost to himself and his mortal needs, Ursare rounded the corner to the chambers of his truest captor. The focus of all his hate, all his rage, all his ambitions practically glowed with a red outline in his eyes, flanked by two less valuable lives. They turned on him, eyes wide but quickly taking control of the situation. One grabbed up a cruel looking machete while the other went for a crossbow, all the while their master sitting back and watching with malice in his every move. Ursare knew in that instant he was in danger but his body acted for him, diving aside from one blow to cut the ankle out from underneath the closest assailant. A second slash to the neck followed by a stab through the ear ended him rightly but the other leveled his crossbow. Without thinking the knife danced from his fingers, hurtling like a bolt of lightning at the crossbow wielding foe. Though the crossbowman never once reacted as if the weapon was coming his way, the boss recoiled in horror from the path of the shiv.

He saw it.

[i]He alone could see it, out of all of them.[/i]

Though the back of his mind played with the thoughts of what had allowed his success, the rest of Ursare was active. Though the blade now sat in the falling crossbowman’s throat, gurgling as he died, Ursare charged forward unthinking. With strength that belied a man of his previous condition he lept the desk of his tormentor and swung a punch at his truest enemy. That faintest hint of electricity filled Ursare’s heart and then, in a flash, the shiv was in his hand once more. Hot blood erupted from the wound it made in the man’s cheek, followed by another wound in his neck, one to the upper torso, and many more to come. Ursare stabbed and slashed until his energy was expended, skin painted red from numerous fallen foes. With a loud sigh and with energy spent, Ursare slumped and breathed fresh, clean air for the first time. On trembling legs feeling the aches from weeks of abuse he rose, only to notice a mirror at his side. In the mirror was a weak and feeble looking man, clearly starved and filthy. It was a frail ghost compared to what Ursare remembered, but it was him; for the first time in his memory, he could recognize himself again. On stumbling legs he left out the hall and took the next right, towards the gates he had been dragged through so long ago. The doors were opened and other prisoners stood outside, basking in the insane light of the apocalypse but thankful for everything they had. Many stood with mouths agape, looking at what was before them. 

Before them, in an awe inspiring view, ran a river of water. Mist jetted up in all directions, causing a soothing cloud of fresh water around them as the fast running, quick-silver colored stream waterfalled off into the edge of the world. A hand fell on his shoulder and he jolted for a moment, turning to see a familiar, perfect smile. Ursare’s mind raced as he considered all that had befallen him, realizing that all that had been done was a part of him. Even the blade had been his own drive, his own will to survive, the ambition to free himself from his suffering. Shaky eyes, filled with tears, rose from the red shiv to start into the now fully electrified gaze of his benefactor, the transient prisoner. 

[color=ed1c24]”Well done, pal.”[/color]

“Wh-What now?”

[color=ed1c24]”Anything, my man,”[/color] came the reply, an almost humorous ring to his now sing-songy rasp, [color=ed1c24]”Anything at all.”[/color] With that he pat Ursare on the shoulder twice and turned, walking away from the gate and up the hills to escape that dreadful place. Just as he rounded the hill Ursare felt a flash of need as numerous thoughts coalesced into guesses about the true nature of what had occurred.

“Who are you?!” yelled Ursare, “Why did you aid us!?”

That fucking smile.

[color=ed1c24]”Lonn, brother,”[/color] retorted the man, his voice somehow carrying across the distance despite his talking tone. Laughter followed, just barely containing his final reply, [color=ed1c24]”and cause mortals are [b][i]rad[/i][/b].”[/color]

[hider=Summary]
A man named Ursare is a prisoner held in a cell by unknown captors, experiencing all the wonders of imprisonment. Starved, dehydrated, and wounded, he has lost track of time as his life slowly drains away from him. When guards arrive to feed him he savagely beaten, nearly losing consciousness. To Ursare’s surprise he is given a bowl of stew unlike anything he had enjoyed in many, many years. A man presents himself, similarly bedraggled and clearly a prisoner as well, who offers Ursare more respite. Throughout the experience Ursare becomes more and more reinvigorated, feeling strong, hale, and powerful again with a sharpness of thought he hadn’t enjoyed in many months. 

Fueled by the evidently mystic water and food and provided a weapon, an artifact weapon named the Red Shiv, Ursare is released by the Transient figure and unleashes all his pent up anger, rage, and desire for vengeance upon his captors. Behind him, the Transient frees other prisoners who join in. After slaying his captors, Ursare realizes his state of health was all imagined; he was still exhausted, ill-fed, and dehydrated, but felt all the more empowered for it. After exiting the hall he and the other freed prisoners observed the very first rivers returning to the ruined shard of the world, rejoicing. 

In a single moment the Transient presents himself once more, congratulates Ursare on a job well done, and encourages him to continue doing whatever he desires. With that, the Transient makes to leave. By request, Ursare is given the name of his savior, and the reason for his intervention.

His name is [color=ed1c24]Lonn[/color], and he thinks mortals are [color=ed1c24]rad[/color].
[/hider]