Chapter 3: The Untouchable Prisoner
Faelar was back, his face a storm of fury, torchlight glinting off his polished armor, casting sharp reflections on the damp stone. His sharp eyes blazed, knuckles white on his spear, the wood creaking under his grip. Lorienn trailed, her dark hair catching the light, her expression wary but curious, her hand hovering near her sword. Mark leaned against the bars, smirk sharp, daring, his pulse quickening like a drumbeat. "Let's see how far I can push this guy," he thought, the cell's chill numbing his fingers, the thrill of his power a fire in his gut. He rubbed his wrist, the chain's bite a familiar sting, his nervous tic flaring under pressure. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and the faint metallic tang of Faelar's armor, a reminder of the world's hostility.
"You will speak, human," Faelar growled, voice thick with rage, his breath sour with ale. "What are you? No—no man defies touch like that."
Mark's smirk widened, defiance surging, drowning caution. He could play it safe, wait for Thranduil's summons, but something raw—fear, loneliness, the weight of this alien world—pushed him to needle the elf, an emotional impulse overriding strategy. "Oh, I'm full of surprises," he taunted, voice dripping with modern sarcasm, the lilt jarring in the ancient hall. "Wanna go another round, buddy?"
Faelar's face twisted, a snarl breaking free. He lunged, spear thrusting through the bars, the point gleaming with torchlight. Mark focused, the buzz in his core surging, sharper, stronger than before. The air rippled, a force like a tidal wave erupting from him. Faelar hit an invisible wall, flung back with a sickening crack. His armor clanked, dust rising in a cloud as he slammed into the corridor wall. He crumpled, dazed, spear clattering to the stone, his breath ragged, eyes vacant.
[Push Repulsion Lv. 2 unlocked. Target drained. Show-off.]
Mark's heart raced, triumph flooding his veins like wildfire. "That's more like it." The power hummed, alive in his core, a pulse of strength he could wield. He rubbed his wrist, the chain's sting grounding him, sweat beading on his neck, the cell's earthy scent clinging to his skin. His mind spun, calculating, like Rick Grimes assessing a new threat. He caught Lorienn's gaze, her steady eyes wide with shock, her hand frozen near her sword, fingers twitching.
[Push Repulsion Lv. 2: +10% force. No cost. Keep pushing their buttons.]
A sharp voice cut through the chaos. "What is this?" Tauriel emerged from the shadows, her dagger drawn, its blade glinting like a star in the torchlight. Her leather armor creaked, the faint lavender scent cutting through the dungeon's mildew, a breath of life in the decay. Her green eyes locked on Mark, fierce and unyielding, her red hair a fiery cascade catching the light.
"He's a… a demon!" Lorienn stammered, her voice soft but urgent, her hand still hovering near her sword. "Threw Faelar without—without even touching him!"
Tauriel ignored her, stepping closer, her boots clicking on the stone. Her fingers tightened on her dagger, the leather creaking, a micro-reaction to her tension. "How did you do that, human?" she demanded, her voice melodic but edged with steel, like a song with a hidden blade.
Mark met her gaze, his smirk softening into something playful, a spark of charm he couldn't resist. "Magic," he quipped, the modern lilt jarring. "Or, y'know, maybe I'm just slippery." Her eyes narrowed, irritation flashing, but a flicker of intrigue danced in her gaze, like a spark in a forest. She twirled her dagger, the blade spinning with practiced ease, a tic betraying her annoyance.
[Achievement: Romantic Repeller. +50 Essence. Flirt game's weak.]
"Weak? Ouch, system," Mark thought, stifling a chuckle. Tauriel was a challenge, her strength magnetic, like a survivor you wanted in your corner but couldn't quite trust. He saw the spark in her eyes, the hint of fascination beneath her duty. Like Daryl facing a new ally, he had to play this carefully, charm her without overstepping.
Tauriel turned, barking orders to Lorienn to tend to Faelar, her voice sharp, commanding. Mark seized the moment, confidence swelling like a tide. He'd test Phasing again, show off a little. "Short hop, no big deal," he thought, focusing, his body unraveling into that ghostly state. But the buzz faltered, like a radio losing signal. The floor vanished, and he plummeted, landing with a splash in a muddy puddle below the cell. The earthy stench hit, cold muck seeping into his clothes, heavy and clinging. He cursed, scrambling up, humiliation burning his cheeks, his hands slick with mud. The dungeon's chill bit deeper, the puddle's stink a reminder of his failure.
[Phasing Lv. 1 failed. MP -10. Try not to drown in shame.]
"Screw you, system," he muttered, wiping mud from his face, his fingers trembling with cold and frustration. He climbed back, boots slipping on the slick stone, his tunic heavy with filth. Lorienn's gaze lingered, her lips twitching as if suppressing a smile, her eyes curious despite herself. Mark's determination hardened, a steel core beneath the embarrassment. He'd master this, no matter how many times he fell, like a survivor learning to wield a new weapon in a walker-filled world.
He slumped in the cell's corner, mud drying on his skin, the earthy scent clinging like a second skin. He rubbed his wrist, the chain's bite sharp, grounding him. A memory flickered—his old dog, Max, curling up beside him after a rough day, the warmth of fur against his side. The comfort was a ghost now, a pang of loss in this cold, alien place. He closed his eyes, the system's runes a faint glow in his mind, mocking his failure. "I'll get out. I have to," he whispered, voice cracking, the words a vow to himself.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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