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[h2][color=64520A][i][b]Daxos Ironbow[/b][/i][/color][/h2][i][b][color=64520A]Dwarf, Rogue, Thief, Level [/color]05[/b][/i]
[color=64520A][i][b]HP:[/b][/i][/color] 43 / 43	[color=64520A][i][b]Armor Class:[/b][/i][/color] 14	[color=64520A][i][b]Conditions:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Location:[/b][/i][/color] The Coach House
[color=64520A][i][b]Action:[/b][/i][/color] Eyes on the Prize
[color=64520A][i][b]Bonus Action:[/b][/i][/color] N/A
[color=64520A][i][b]Reaction:[/b][/i][/color] N/A 
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[right][img]https://i.ibb.co/p67XnxBB/IMG-0542.jpg[/img][/right]
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No more prying.
No more forcing answers out of stone and shadow.
Now he watched.

Reactive—that was safer. That was survival. It was then that something didn’t sit right. The cells had been little more than an afterthought to him at first glance—rough iron bars, damp stone, and straw bedding tossed in without care. But now, standing still and letting the room breathe, his eye caught on the middle cell.

The straw there wasn’t settled the same way.
Not flattened evenly.
Not kicked aside like the others.

It bulged—subtly. As if something beneath it refused to lie flat. A faint suggestion of color peeked through the yellowed straw, dull but unmistakably not straw. And then—just for a moment—there was movement. Not enough to be sure. A shift. A twitch. A lie settling poorly.

[i][color=64520a]That’s no’ right. Straw disnae breathe.[/color][/i]

Curiosity prickled, sharp and unwelcome. Against his better judgment, Daxos approached the cell door, boots quiet on stone. He crouched, examining the lock—old, but serviceable. Nothing fancy.

He slipped a pick from his kit, working by feel, letting muscle memory take over.
Click.
Nothing.
He adjusted, tried again.
Click.
Still nothing.
A third attempt yielded only stubborn resistance.
He paused, lips twitching despite himself.

[i][color=64520a]Hells below… ah keep missin’ my touch. Locks used tae sing tae me.[/color][/i]

A quiet, uneasy chuckle escaped him—more breath than sound.

[i][color=64520a]Either ah’m losin’ my edge, or fate’s havin’ a right laugh at my expense.[/color][/i]

The humor didn’t linger. That sense of pressure—of being watched, of something waiting—crept back in. His fingers were stilled. He straightened slightly, hand drifting away from the lock and closer to where his weapon rested. No. Not alone. He turned his head just enough to keep the cell in view and raised his voice—not loud, but firm.

[color=64520a]“Oi. One o’ ye—come have a look at this, aye?”[/color]
[color=64520a]“Somethin’ in this middle cell’s no’ sittin’ as it should. Ah’d rather nae find oot what it is by myself.”[/color]

He took a half-step back, giving the bars space, eyes never leaving the disturbed straw.
If something decided to move again — he intended to have someone at his side when it did.