NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: The Adventures of the Creeping Bam (BOOK 4: The Hunt)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: GAEL

As much as I feel deep shame about having to go into the corner to pee in the bucket that was finally provided for me after Tavarrat brought us some food and water, I must admit it feels a good deal better than just wetting myself because I couldn't move. I spent a few extra minutes while I was squatting with my britches around my knees inspecting the state of my thighs, but thankfully while they're still a little clammy they're nowhere near as red as I expected, despite the chafing. Even so, as I hurriedly pull them back on after buttoning my drawers up, I find myself looking out around the room again, wary of being caught out even though I know we're both alone in here. And da's out again, hanging slumped where he was left before but now, at least, sitting a little more comfortably than before.

It's another little mercy that Mallys came up with, while we were having our very guarded conversation about my friends, or at least what little I was willing to reveal. When Tavarrat returned with the food and water, she sent her off again to fetch the bucket and also the little stool he's now perched on, taking at least a little of the weight from his arms now as he remains comprehensively lashed to the pipes. I couldn't help it, I had to thank her for that too, it was a small gesture but it meant a lot.

We were almost becoming friendly, I think, even if I was working hard to keep it clear in my mind that this is not someone that I can trust in any capacity right now. And then she spoiled it by accidentally letting slip that one of her people might have killed Thelgaewynn during the fight after they took me captive ... I blew up, I was so angry, but more than that I was horrified, this bare-faced reminder that she really is my enemy, that they all are, that they've been hired to murder every one of my friends, and that eventually they'll murder me too, most likely. I called her a conceited, two-faced bitch who deserved to fry in a thousand hells for the rest of time for having any kind of part at all in that, and I'm sure I called her much worse things too, I can't really be sure. After that it got a whole lot more fuzzy. She left soon after, but by that point I barely noticed.

No, I was curled up in the other corner, my arms wrapped around my head while I wept like a baby. Fuck ... Thel ... I mean I didn't know her yet, not really, but ... no, I think I knew her enough, at least. Enough to like her, I really did, and now ... well no, once I got myself under control it was mostly through reminding myself that, honestly, she never actually said that they definitely killed her, she didn't know herself, that they were already gone before her friend could know for sure, she was just really hurt. Enough to kill her, but still ... no, I don't believe it, that dwarf is too fucking tough to die like that, I know she is. Or maybe I'm just trying really hard to convince myself of the fact ...

Buckling my belt, I let my tunic settle back over it and take a quick step away from the bucket, uncomfortably mindful that it smells no better than I did last night. Worse is that it was never actually made clear if anyone's actually going to come and collect it at some point to empty it out, or if it's just going to stink the place out further as I have to keep topping it up. Or perhaps Vandryss might devise something even worse for it when she comes back. Oh for the love of Minerva, Gael, why do you have to put those kinds of thoughts in your head in the first place?

Moving as far across the room as I can from the bucket now, I plant myself against the wall and take a long moment to stretch my arms, then each of my legs one at a time. Making the most of my relative freedom while I have it, uncomfortably aware of what they plan on doing with me, sooner of later. I've still got a whole lot of chains hanging from the shackles locked around my limbs and throat, but for now, at least, I'm otherwise largely unrestricted. Although with the door locked it doesn't really mean a whole lot.

Like a glutton for punishment, the first thing I did once I was in a state to actually use my newfound good fortune, such as it is, was try to weave a sigil, hoping against hope that perhaps Tavarrat might have made a mistake with her work after all. A glyph inscribed wrong, perhaps, a small but important portion of spell-binding overlooked or fudged without being caught first. Tiny niggles, perhaps, but enough to create a chink that I could exploit, anything that might allow me to use just a sliver of my magic. Nothing happened. As if I really expected anything else.