On day one, Lorcan had been full of hope that a journey in a wagon was not the worst thing that could happen to him. He had seen the clouds, the many mounted soldiers with no roof over their heads to protect them from anything. He had also seen the road and that it probably would turn more rough at some point, had thought that they were the lucky ones who did not have to carry their own weight for the next few days.

On day two, Lorcan's neck muscles had started to ache. All the effort of trying not to bang his head against some part of the wagon's ceiling or side walls with every bump on the road had been taking its toll already. Luckily his hair was a big, fuzzy mess that could act as some sort of shock absorber.

Somewhen over the course of day three Lorcan's guts had started to protest against the food that could hardly be called such. Maybe it had been the better decision than to try and fully process it, even if the infrequent breaks had made it difficult to hold things back quite literally.

Had it been day four or five when Fenks had died ? The plus point: There now was more room, less of the nasty smell and the certainty that none of those remaining was infected. On the other hand however it still was one person who had died a painful death and while maybe some of the others didn't care, Lorcan did. And with that kind of revelation the wagon had started to feel just that tiny little bit more dirty.

Also, Lorcan would have preferred the wagon breaking a wheel than one of the horses breaking a leg. He was in no way claustrophobic, but being practically immobilized for days had felt like a very bad thing for the athletic Skayleigh. Getting out of that wagon would have taken away some of his worries, but such a change of things had been nowhere in sight. The foothills had punished his already pretty beaten head just like the mountain roads, but not harder than those either. So there had been no hope for the material breaking down then after so much survival.

And yet, after all that hardship, the way their guards just left them behind still managed to baffle him quite a bit. Weren't those iron shackles worth anything or why did they just leave them and the keys behind ? Maybe a quite tiny oddity to wonder about given his overall situation right now, but still...

The person Faeril passed the keys on to was him and greedily the half-giant rammed the keys in the crude lock. Ironically, now that the clamps had been pressing on his skin for so long, removing them actually hurt as blood was pouring back into layers of flesh that had been in lack of it for days. Lorcan looked down on himself, gently pulling back the sleeves to check whether any kind of infection had formed beneath the iron. Nothing! Maybe the only good thing this day for otherwise their situation could be considered rather bleak.

Having handed the key over to the one standing next to him, Lorcan kneeled to pick up his still warm shackles from the ground again. The thought of keeping those felt odd, but on the other hand it somehow felt satisfying and good for his sense of security to have [i]something[/i] in his hand. Maybe that iron could send some sparks flying to start a fire ? Or maybe they could be used to beat a small animal to death for food ? Lorcan did not know, but his grip around his shackles only hardened. If they should prove to be useless ballast he could still throw them away at any time.

"Lorcan. Just Lorcan." It would be easy for anyone to notice that the Skayleigh was speaking with a bit of a weird accent. The Caelic isles were a bit of a region of their own and he could not hide that easily. "I do not have any other name."