Foul water drips from the cold stone ceiling and splashes across the prisoner's face. With a tired groan, he wipes the filth from his scraggly-bearded visage and sits up on the splintered wood board his jailers call a cot. The only other furnishings in the room are a bucket for relieving himself and the chains which bind him to the far wall. Daylight squeezes in through a solitary barred window high on the wall above him.
Rising from his bed, the prisoner stretches briefly in the dim light of the morning suns. Thick cords of muscle bulge under battle-scarred flesh throughout his naked form as he flexes. He steels himself and, with increasing effort, pulls at his chains. A creak and the slightest budge encourage him. He pulls again, matching the strength of the iron links themselves. With a mighty yell that reverberates through the high-ceilinged cell, the base of the chains gives way. They snap off the wall and crash into the ground beside the prisoner, cracking the thick bricks at his feet. He is a man of the Wilds. He will suffer no foolish attempt to cage him.
Cowards had placed him in this cell. They attacked while he slept. More significant numbers than he could handle in his drowsiness had surrounded his camp. He claimed the lives of more than half of those pitiful excuses for men before they could take their prisoner. No man of the kingdom could hope to match his strength or experience. Nor will any be safe once he made his escape. Their women, too, will witness his fury. He will fuck them mad.
Like a panther, he stalks across the room and crouches just beyond the doorway. He listens for the sound of guards approaching to investigate his struggle. Seconds, then minutes, pass in silence. No one approaches.
"Strange," he thinks, "not a single guard?"
He ponders his next move. Typically someone would come to check when he broke free in such a way. That's when he would make his escape then. He pushes his long, knotted brown hair from his eyes and looks up towards the window, towards the open space for which he longs.
"The bars would not be a problem. I would rip them from the wall. Even then, the hole is too small for even a child to slip through."
The prisoner turns toward the solid iron door of the cell. He pushes against it to test its strength. It is sturdy and feels better crafted than the chains from which he so easily escaped. It will not give without great effort. He contemplates ramming the door, but a voice within the cell stops him.
"Jaren," the voice whispers, "you have been chosen."
He turns with a start, scanning the room for some unseen person. The room still appears empty. Nothing is out of place. There's nowhere for anyone to hide. Instinct tells him with certainty that there has to be someone, or something, in the room with him.
"Who dares speak my name?"
"The Goddess has chosen you, Jaren."
Leaping at the source of the voice, Jaren grabs at the space before him. While he doesn't manage to catch his prey, he does feel something soft brush against the back of his hand. He needs to be faster.
