Wrong Place, Wrong Time

[Silas]

((solo))

It was a beautiful evening as Silas made his way out of a small town on the other side of the island. They had been dodging gaurds for a few days, and it seemed that Scara Brae's finest had all but given up now. While his partners in crime were making camp in the woods, Silas was visiting a locksmith. He felt that maybe, just maybe, he had been too hard on Acellya, and decided to get her something to show his appreciation for saving him from prison.

Of course, he was not buying her flowers, or even anything she really wanted or needed. Why was he visiting a locksmith for this gift? It was related to his show. She had showed some skill at escaping danger and imprisonment, so an idea struck him. He was going to ask her to become an escape artist.

The previous traveling show he had been a part of had plenty of other entertainment besides the product demonstration. There were strong-men, illusionists, freaks, and even an escape artist. It was a big draw, and after the entertainment, people would stay for the demonstration. All the salesmen in that show made very good money. As it was now, the show was barely making any real profit. He was making enough to sustain himself and pay his new employees. Maybe if he added an act such as this to his show, it would increase his profits as well.

It wasn't long before he got what he wanted. That was a very good thing, since it was getting dark and he thought he saw a gaurd look at him funny. On his way out of town, he also purchased an eyepatch. He thought it would make his bodygaurd look more intimidating. No eye-contact was made with the gaurd as he left the gates.

As the alchemist walked along the side of the dirt road, he looked at the trinket he bought. It was shaped like a multiple function pocket knife, but this device was not made for some survivalist that needs a corkscrew at all times. All of the tools were made for picking locks. It was like a whole professional set of lockpicks, shoved into this compact package. Most of the tools could be detached from the frame for more delicate work. She could keep a few hidden in her mouth, and after stepping into the box to do her work, would slip the needed tools from her mouth, pop the lock, and everyone would applaud in amazement. He might have to work with her on the acting a bit, but he figured she'd be alright.

Silas looked to the sky with a bit of worry in his eyes. He knew these roads weren't safe at night, with the Scourge about. Why hadn't he brought Striker? Well, he couldn't just leave Acellya alone, either. She was good with a sword, but if she was outnumbered by men with a variety of weapons including spears, things likely would not end well. And he couldn't bring her along, because it would ruin the surprise. He wanted it to be a surprise so that he could at least pretend to be nice to her for a change. So, Silas had to go alone, under the ruse that he was meeting with a man that could take them off this damned island by boat. Which he also did while he was out. That was, in fact, why he was late in returning to camp.

The camp was quite a hike away from the town, since they were fugitives trying to avoid detection. It was strange seeing an artists rendering of your face pasted onto any surface that could hold the poster. The Scara Brae gaurd unit had put up wanted signs for his merry band of escapees in every settlement on the island. They really seemed to want that reward. To avoid detection, Silas wore glasses and had slapped some of his green thumb tonic on his face to grow a long, full beard. It worked very well, though he'd have to shave more than usual for the next few days. He sighed, knowing that the walk to his impromtu home would be a long one.

There were worse things than a long walk. Detection by a passer-by, for instance, was worse, for that would mean gaurds would be called and wrists would be manacled, and he would be hauled off to that stinking, shoddily built jailhouse again. Another thing that was worse than a long walk would be getting shot by a hunter's stray arrow. What actually happened to him was a combination of the two.

He didn't even hear someone creeping up on him until a twing snapped. The alchemist turned around to look at his pursuer, and found his attention drawn away quickly from the man standing there with a bow to the arrow that peirced his shoulder. His mouth opened to scream, but a painful, choked squeel came out instead. The next thing he knew, the scuffle of footsteps was once again behind him, and before he could turn around to face yet another threat, a wooden club struck the back of his head, and his body dropped like a sack of potatoes.

When he returned to the land of the living from his trip to dark unconciousness, he could tell that time had passed. He was on his back, looking up into the starry sky. His head throbbed as if an elephant herd was stampeeding through the space between his ears, and his arrow wound stung horribly. It had, however, been cleaned and wrapped by someone while he was out, so it was not the worst possible situation he could be in and still be alive. It was probably the second worst. Maybe the third, since he did still have his legs and arms attached to his body and in perfect working order. Since his kidneys still seemed to be in place and he wasn't in a tub of ice, it just may be the fourth worst situation he could be in. At least it was no worse.

He lifted his head to look around. The world took a few moments to come back into focus, but once everything cleared up he could see a campfire with people sitting around it. Had he been rescured by Striker and Acellya? No, that couldn't be it. There was a group of tents set up on the other side. All of the figures around the fire seemed to be raggedly dressed, poorly washed men with little care for personal hygiene. Another hint that he had not been saved were the rusty iron manacles around his wrists, which were attached to the rope binding his legs. He reconsidered the ranking of this situation, dropping it back down to third worst. The men that captured him were the men he feared would find him on that road. His captors were members of the Scara Scourge.

[Silas]

The battered salesman's head dropped back down as he quietly groaned in dispair. It was just his luck, something like this happening. He knew there was a chance, but he never thought it would actually happen. One never plans on getting shot with an arrow, knocked out, tied up, and taken to a bandit camp. Such a thing simply happens on its own, a horrible twist of fate.

He tried to roll his head to wear it wouldn't sit on the massive knot that formed at the back of his head, but it didn't seem physically possible. It hurt no matter how he laid his head down. His head hurt, his shoulder hurt, his wrists hurt, his legs hurt. Existence in general was painful. There was no way to move his body that lessened the pain of living.

The fire crackled, but where he was it was still chilly. His head was positioned so that he could see the filthy band that captured him. A scowl came over his lips, but he remained silent. They weren't paying any attention to him now, so it was best not to attract any. They were eating and drinking and talking loudly, mainly about how much money they were going to get for throwing Silas to the damned Scara gaurds.

Those rats. Silas did not want to go back to prison. He also didn't want to be tied up against his will, and he certainly did not want to get clubbed in the back of the head, but it all happened. This experience was an object lesson for the "You can't always get what you want" proverb. Of course, he also was not getting what he needed, and he certainly did not feel that this was what he deserved. He deserved to be back at his own camp, preparing to escape to Corone.

He lifted his head once again to take note of his surroundings. He seemed to be tossed next to a big white tent. He looked to the metal spikes used for tent pegs. They looked rough and rusty. A glance was shot to the outlaws that had captured him to make sure they wouldn't pay him much attention. Seeing that they were very focused on their booze and their dinner, he did a strange, worm-like crawl to position the knot holding the rope on his legs tight against the spike.

Silas started to wiggle against it, trying to fray the rope. Even though the rope was not espescially thick, it was a silly idea, but it was all he had if he wanted to get his hands free. With his hands free, he could find his things and get away from this wretched bunch. To an outside observer, it would look as if Silas was trying to make love to an iron spike. Though he tried to minimize the noise, he couldn't help but create a rustling sound as he moved against the grass and dirt.

Looking at his handiwork, it seemed like there was some progress being made. The surface threads of the rope were starting to break away. He looked again to his captors to make sure he hadn't been caught yet. It was very lucky for him that he did not have the most vigilant kidnappers. Instead of celebrating their victory (if knocking out a single, poorly armed man with a surprise attack could be considered a victory), they should have been watching to make sure he wouldn't run off, or slither off as the case may be.

[Silas]

If someone had asked Silas a year ago if he could see himself tied up by bandits with the intent of turning him over to the authorities, he would have probably replied that it was a distinct possibility, yet he would have never actually expected for something like this to happen. How the hell was he going to get out of this scenario?

The only plan that he had in mind was to get these ropes cut before someone saw him. After that, he didn't know how he was going to escape. Nor did he know how he was going to get his things back, and he was going to get his things back. They were his, dammit, and he wasn't going to let a pack of grimy, stinking, rat-faced sons of whores steal his belongings. He could see his satchel resting next to the man on the biggest stump around the fire-pit, and next to that was a sack. Could his coat and knife be in there? The money he had left over after paying the man with the boat would probably be gone, but what need did these men have of his other things? His knife wasn't very fine. They could steal better. The potions he generally kept in his satchel were all used up from his adventures over the past few days, so there was nothing else of true value left in the satchel. The coat had nothing in it except for the lockpicks, which were rather cheap, bought with the one gold piece that he recieved from that last job. The coat its self was once fine, but years of travel were starting to wear on it. Again, they could steal better off of richer.

A sigh escaped him as he felt his legs begin to grow tired. However, he couldn't give up. A glance to the fraying rope gave him a rejuvinated hope. It was almost worn through. In fact, a few more moments of this would possibly allow him to simply snap the rope. After those few moments passed, he could feel the restraints slacken just slightly, and he attempted to break them. The first try was useless, as was the second, but the old adage came true as the third time was the charm. They broke with a small noise, and he scarcely even paused before quietly sneaking off into the woods, his passage covered by the drunken ramblings of his captors.

He grinned as he hid behind a tree. It wasn't as if he were proud that he escaped a bunch of drunken robbers. He was just happy to be in a better situation than he previously was. Now, to get his things back. Silas thought hard for a moment. He knew he had to act quick to remain in control of the situation, for if they noticed his escape before he brought it to their attention, they would hunt him down easily. However, if he used misdirection and trickery, he would have a better chance at survival and success.

Those green eyes fell to a stone amongst the fallen leaves. The next phase of his plan began to form in his head. He picked it up and chose a direction that seemed plausable for him to run in, but would take them away from where he now sat and where his things were. He considered where to throw it for a moment, and chose a spot between two trees. He then pitched the rock into the twigs and leaves between the trees there. It bounced, almost giving the impression of footsteps. Apparently, it was enough for the bandits. First, one looked up at the noise, then glanced to where Silas once laid. And then they paniced.

[Silas]

To put it simply, the group of Scourge bandits were very unhappy. They had lost their meal ticket, their unwilling sugardaddy, and had also been humiliated in the process. Who would have expected a runt like Silas to escape the great and terrible Scara Scourge? Well, it didn't seem to be very hard to do. The men scrambled around, trying to make sense of the situation. They barked and yelled at each other. With all the anger flying around, Silas was surprised no one got into a fight.

"Shit!"
"Wha?!"
"Bleeding hells!"
"Where'd 'e go?!"
"Who was bloody watchin' 'im?!"
"Not me!"
"It wasn't my job!"
"You bunch of dumb bastards!"
"Which way'd he run off to?"
"I heard him!"
"Aye! O'er there!"

The men ran off in the direction of his thrown rock. Silas couldn't help but want to laugh, but for the sake of caution he refrained. They may be dumb, but they weren't deaf.

While their stupidity had them running around, chasing air, Silas had to act swiftly to regain his things. He scurried to the bag and began to sift through it. Coat, check. He threw it over his shoulders and pulled it on. He patted the pocket and smiled. Lockpicks, check. He grabbed his satchel and slipped it over his shoulders as well, taking a peak inside to make sure everything was in there. It was. Check. He reached into the bag once more and pulled out his blade, which he then tucked into his belt. Knife, check. He reached into the bag one last time, his fingertips seeking out the relic he kept with him at all times, the one thing left to remind him of his family. However, there was nothing there. Pocketwatch, missing. White washed over his face and he dropped the empty burlap sack.

So distraught was he over this new development that he didn't even notice the sound of chainmail on a large, muscle bound man. "Lookin' fer somethin, lad?" the gravely voice behind him said. Silas slowly turned, his eyes growing wide. His situation just rose to second worst scenario he could encounter. There wasn't much to say but, "Shit."

[Osato]

Due to inactivity this thread has been closed. If you wish for it to be opened again PM the moderator who closed it and ask them to reopen it. However, do so only if you are going to actively roleplay in it again.

Thanks,
~Osato