The Archman

Chapter 4 - A Harsh Awakening, Part 2

Looking up, Eira is met with a pair of cruel, steely eyes. They have a bright red tincture to them that seems to almost glow in the faint darkness. They have a vivid hue to them which she is not aware any human could even possess until now.

Contrasting the almost scintillating quality of the figure's eyes is his pale white skin, which looks to be almost completely devoid of colour or life. It would have had an almost immaculate smoothness to it had it not been for five or six scars across the figure's face, which clearly varied in size and severity.

What surprises her just as much as his blood-red eyes is his long, silver hair, which seems to almost shimmer, despite the clear lack of light in the brig. The locks cascade in several waves of silver down his neck, a few passing over his face. His hair is almost as long as Eira's, coming down to his shoulders and falling into a natural resting place.

This combination of unusual features makes it difficult to guess his age, though if Eira had to make an estimation, he could not be more than a few years older than her.

The hair covering his face combined with the darkness presents another challenge for observing his other features, but Eira can make out a few of them: most notably, his high cheekbones, defined jawline, and pronounced chin. Additionally, she can see they are fixed in an expression of disappointed surprise.

"You're awake..." The figure crosses his arms, speaking with the same ominous tone Eira heard the previous night. One thing she had not noticed the previous night was the figure's strange accent. Despite speaking perfect English, it is clearly not his native tongue. There is something almost ancient and worldly about the texture of his words, making it impossible to tell what his original language indeed is.

"S-sorry..." Eira is not sure exactly what she is apologising for, but it seems like the appropriate response.

The figure bends down in a squat, reducing his monolithic height by a decent margin, though it still feels like he is towering over Eira.

He picks through the key ring in his hands, searching for a specific one which he lands on after less than a second. He takes the selected key in one hand, then grabs Eira's ankle with the other, unlocking the shackle around her leg.

She jumps as the figure grabs her but keeps her mouth shut, stifling any noise which might have attempted to escape.

The figure moves onto her handcuffs, grasping her wrist and pulling her hands closer for easier access.

Though she had prepared herself to be seized once again, she was not prepared for the sudden skin-on-skin contact.

The figure's hands have a gaunt coldness to them, which seems strange, as they look to be the hands of a young man, free of wrinkles and other signs of ageing. Just as with his face, however, this youthfulness is contrasted by a multitude of faint scars which cover a significant portion of exposed skin, running all the way up his taut forearms.

She can feel that the palms of his hands are covered in quite a few calluses as well, much more than one would expect from someone who looks reasonably young. It was as if centuries of coarseness had accumulated on a pair of hands only a few decades old.

The handcuffs fall on the wooden floor with a clatter which resembles the sound of the figure's footsteps. He returns the key ring to a pouch on his belt, using one hand to open and close the single compartment. He keeps his other hand gripped firmly around Eira's wrist as if to act as a kind of replacement for the handcuffs.

"Come on." The figure returns to a standing position, pulling Eira up by her arm.

"W-wait..." Eira is taken aback by the sudden movement. She tries to move to a crouching position, so she is not just dangling from the figure like a rag doll, but her body is still far too exhausted to move properly.