Molin Prologue - Brev
Squirming to try & get blood to hands & feet sobriety lands, it doesn't feel good.
Alone, well alone if you don't count the bodies swaying in the chill damp breeze blowing across the garrison enclosure. Taking stock, Molin's view of the garrison walls is limited, bound & manacled in the mud; his back is against the timber walls of a building. Listening he can hear the occasional snore, cough, moan etc. Eventually footsteps approach, but the cloaked figure by-passes Molin, a door opens & closes out of view.
Bereft of any weapon & wearing naught but a loincloth all efforts to break his bonds do no more than tighten their cruel grip on his wrists. As he struggles blood finally begins painfully to return to his fingers, he realises that beneath the mud he is still wearing the ring taken from the tower of the now dead Kest-I-Mond the mage, the ring he had used to take the form of a dragon, the ring of skin shifting.
Remembering his last efforts to use the ring he dismisses the instant reaction to take the form of a human sized dragon, after all he'd still be manacled to the shed with no greater strength. Carefully he pictures the form of a snake & slowly his body changes, to late he curses as he realises he did not include the ability to deliver a poisonous bite, but at least his undulating coils allow him to slip his bonds.
Making his way around the yard his improved senses pick out the smell of filth & sweat of the humans within the garrison, subconsciously he detects the odour of Illyra's brother in law amongst the many strangers. The familiar smell is located within the building behind which he was secured. Other smells are registered, pigs, horses & soldiers, many soldiers & their locality put away for another day. Knowing he can offer little aid on his own, he slithers through the filth & heads for the burnt but patrolled South West gate.
Passing unnoticed between the guards Molin turns to the overspill of tents along the western edge of the garrison, startled, the smell of sex assaults his nostrils as he passes the whore house, despite its pull, he worms his nose beneath the fly sheet of the nearest tent. Casting around he instantly knows it is unoccupied, scuffing about however he is disappointed to note it holds no serviceable weapon or clothes.
Several tents later, some occupied, some not, Molin finishes dressing, he is attired in a make shift city troopers uniform, whilst he doesn't think it would pass muster, at night with a bit of luck, well who knows. Resisting the urge to stick his tongue out & taste the air or to squirm out on his belly he instead uses his, yes foot, that's what they are.
Ducking out of the tent he realises he doesn't actually know where the others were going, what the hell he might as well head back to Illyra's old home, it was as good a place as anywhere else. Briefly accosted once or twice by returning curfew patrols his disguise, the darkness & some quick talking allow him to reach the sanctuary of familiarity. As he enters the house all is quiet however it is clear the property has been searched, all is now silent however & he quickly climbs the stairs, squirms beneath a broken cot & begins to snore.
As Molin sleeps dawn breaks, he fails to hear the wagon pull into the yard or the conversation between the two city guards that take up their station to either side of the gate to the yard.