Jailbreak!
"In you both go!” Both Remington and Gregory fell face-first into the muddy cell. The rusty barred door whined behind them, shutting them in with a CLANK. Keys jingled within the lock of the door, clicking it closed. The warden spat into the cell with a sneer, “We’ll burn you deaders in the morning.”
Gregory splattered his ivory hand onto the cold floor, staining it with a thin film of rat excrement as he pushed his lanky form up. His head nearly scraped up against the ceiling. The skeleton grumbled as he bent his neck forward, offering a lanky hand down to his daughter.
“You all right, honey bee?” his jaws chattered as his deepened voice resounded through the cold, dank cell.
“I’ve been better.” Her pale, thin hand gripped Gregory’s. Remy pulled herself up, brushing the refuse off of her leathers and poncho.
The forsaken duo surveyed their surroundings. The cell barely fit them both. The only light illuminating the room was from a tiny barred window letting the afternoon Sun shine into a meager bright, striped bar on the floor.
Gregory reached for his waist, sighing as the fact dawned on him: The guards also confiscated his pipe along with his gear. “This is the final time I’m goin’ ta Redridge with ya fer yer bone charm huntin’.”
“Fair enough, pops,” Remy folded her arms, looking up to the puny window. It wasn’t good. The Lakeshire townsfolk seemed to be building a pyre outside, likely where the duo would be roasted come sun up. The gunslinger winced, “But... I think I know a way outta here.”
The forsaken whistled a sequence of notes. A few moments later, the dry shrill of an vulture echoed against the bars. The undead bird landed on the window, looking into the cell with an unnerving, empty stare.
Remy smiled, “Ammo always comin’ ta the rescue. Here... Ya remember Nath?”
Ammo tilted his beak and jabbed it against the bars.
“Course ya do. Ammo, give ‘im this, yeah?” The forsaken produced a playing card between her index and middle finger: A nine of spades. With a sharpened claw, she etched in:
REDRIDGE MOUNTAINS - LAKESHIRE - WILL BE BURNED COME NEXT SUNRISE - REMY
“The hell’s that, bee? Don’t tell me you’re wantin’ ta gamble while we’re literally countin’ down ta our second death?”
The woman shook her head. “Spades suit means trouble. A nine of spades means we’re so far up shit creek that our eyes are turnin’ brown, and soon there’ll be a loss of life.” Remy shooed Ammo off, “Go on, boy! Get it ta Nath!”
The vulture pulled his head from the gap in the bars, nine of spades in beak, and flapped off toward the man...
[ @tilnathiel ]
