Chapter 4: Elven Interrogations
The dungeon's air was a heavy shroud, thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint, acrid tang of burnt candle wax. Mark Baratheon leaned against the cell's slick wall, the cold biting through his thin tunic, seeping into his bones like a living thing. His wrists, raw from the chains' earlier bite, throbbed as he rubbed them, a nervous tic he couldn't shake. The torchlight flickered, casting jagged shadows that danced across the floor, illuminating a faint scratch on the stone—a crude arrow, etched by some long-forgotten prisoner, pointing nowhere. It was a silent scream, a plea for escape that echoed Mark's own restless thoughts. "I'm not staying here," he muttered, his voice a low rasp, the modern lilt jarring in the ancient hall. His breath puffed out, a faint cloud in the chill, tasting of mildew and despair.
Tauriel stood before his cell, alone, a storm of quiet intensity. Her red hair burned like a wildfire in the candlelight, strands catching the glow, framing her fierce green eyes. Her leather armor creaked softly as she shifted, her dagger held loosely, its polished blade glinting like a shard of moonlight. The lavender scent clinging to her was a sharp contrast to the dungeon's rot, a breath of forest air that made Mark's chest ache with a sudden, unbidden memory—his sister's garden, the smell of lavender on summer nights, her laughter fading into the dark. He pushed the thought down, hard, his fingers tightening on his wrist, the raw skin stinging. "Focus, idiot. She's your way out."
"Tell me, human," Tauriel said, her voice low, melodic, like leaves rustling in a twilight breeze, "how do you evade touch?"
Mark tilted his head, a smirk curling his lips, defiance surging over caution. The humiliation of his mud-soaked fumble still burned, but this was a chance to reclaim control, to push her buttons. "Trade secret," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, and winked, a reckless, impulsive taunt that defied strategy. "Want a demo?"
Her lips thinned, eyes flashing with frustration, a spark of green fire. "My time is not yours to waste," she snapped, stepping closer, boots clicking sharply on the stone. Her hand tightened on her dagger, the leather creaking, a micro-reaction that screamed annoyance. "Are you a sorcerer? A dark spirit?"
"Ouch, she's not playing," Mark thought, his smirk faltering, heart pounding like a war drum. He leaned forward, the bars' cold metal grazing his knuckles, grounding him. "Just Mark Baratheon," he said, softer, almost genuine, his modern lilt softening the edges. "Not here to hurt anyone. Just… slippery, y'know?"
Her brow furrowed, a silent war between duty and curiosity flickering across her face. The candle's flame wavered, casting her shadow long and sharp, like a blade across the floor. "The King demands answers," she said, voice steady but edged with suspicion. "Your name means nothing. What are you?"
"She's hooked, but she's a wildfire waiting to burn me," he thought, a thrill sparking in his chest, reckless and dangerous. Like Rick Grimes facing a new group, he had to play this right, charm without overstepping. "How 'bout this?" he said, leaning closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Get me an audience with Thranduil, and I'll show him what I can do. Better than tellin' you here, right?"
Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of intrigue beneath the irritation, her fingers twitching on her dagger's hilt. "You presume much, human," she murmured, but her gaze lingered, assessing, like a predator sizing up prey that might bite back. The lavender scent sharpened, mixing with the dungeon's mildew, a reminder of her strength, her world. She turned, boots clicking, leaving the air charged with unspoken tension.
[Intuition +0.2. She's hooked—don't ruin it.]
[Achievement: Romantic Repeller. +50 Essence. Keep annoying her.]
"Annoying her? Hell, that's my specialty," Mark thought, a grin tugging his lips, though his pulse raced. The system's sarcasm was a kick, but it was right—she was intrigued, and he'd just lit a spark. He slumped back, the stone's chill biting his shoulders, his fingers rubbing his wrist, the raw skin a sharp anchor. He needed to plan, to understand his tools. Closing his eyes, he summoned the HUD, the familiar hum filling his mind, a low, ethereal buzz like a distant elven song. Blue runes flared, a lattice of starlight pulsing in his vision, vivid against the dungeon's gloom.
[HUD accessed. MP 75/100. Plan smarter, not harder.]
The rune tablet bloomed, its edges shimmering like moonlight on water, displaying his stats in crisp detail: Agility 10.5, MP 75/100, Essence 150. Minor Transportation hovered, locked but tantalizingly close, a promise of new power. "If I can nail this, I'm out of here," he thought, heart racing with excitement, though the headache from his last Phasing lingered, a dull throb behind his eyes. The system's glow cast faint reflections on the cell's walls, illuminating a faded carving—a tree, its branches scratched deep, a prisoner's hope etched in stone. The sight twisted something in Mark's chest.
He dismissed the HUD, the runes fading, leaving him in the dim candlelight. Voices drifted from the corridor's end, low and tense, the guards' whispers cutting through the silence like a blade. Mark pressed against the bars, the metal's chill grazing his cheek, straining to hear.
"He threw Faelar with his mind," one guard—Faelar himself—muttered, voice raw with fear, boots scuffing the stone. "Sorcery, plain and simple."
"The King's curious," another replied, softer, wary. "He'll want him leashed, mark my words."
"Leashed? Good luck with that," Mark thought, a smirk spreading, amusement bubbling over the dread. His reputation was growing, a weapon he could wield, like Daryl Dixon turning fear into an edge. The guards' pine scent mingled with the wax, their armor clanking faintly as they moved away. Thranduil's interest was his ticket out, but it was a tightrope—fame was a blade, sharp on both sides. He rubbed his wrist, the sting grounding his racing thoughts, the cell's gloom a reminder of his stakes. "Game on," he whispered, voice barely audible, the system's runes flickering faintly, a mocking glow in his mind.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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