Tap. Drip. Tap. Drip. Tap. Drip.
The sky grieved, tears streaking towards the ground like a meteor shower, occasionally accompanied by a thunderous boom as the grey ceiling unleashed its emotions upon the world in arcs of white. The wind howled in response, sending its freezing, intangible tendrils in search of living things to infect with its coldness. Cyrus agreed with it the Gods' sentiment. Today wasn't a good day.
The roman tapped his finger against the grey, rectangular bumps lining the perimeter of the battlements. He peered into the thick mass of dark green and brown. His eyes lids closed and opened, purging them of the accumulating water droplets. Cyrus slipped his unoccupied hand into his pouch. A circular, metal cylinder appeared in his clenched hand. The circumference was covered in numbers from twelve to one, pointed at by a long and shorthand. "Hour four..." He mumbled, "And..." he glared at the thin, little dashes squeezed between the numbers, "fifty." The roman strung all the broken phrases together, "Hour four fifty." Cyrus shook his head in annoyance, "Why couldn't they simply do things in increments of hours?!" He shoved the metal, curved box back into the bag, resuming his watch.
Pitter-patter, tap, pitter-patter, tap, pitter-patter. His fingers drummed in sync with the splat of rain colliding with metal. The roman gazed at the unending grey, rolling clouds that blocked the Sun from delivering its warmth to the populates of this world. After taking in the full dose of blandness, he returned to scanning the now indistinguishable dark green wall. The Sun's position in the sky wasn't discernible. Its effects, however, or lack of them, were palpable. The world darkened as the star went to rest below the horizon.
The tapping ceased but its partner continued the hypnotic tempo. Cyrus pulled the clock out of the satchel for one final glance, brows furrowing.
Pursing his lips, the roman shoved it back into its void prison, gave the forest one last glance and descended a nearby staircase. His steps were slow and measured, never moving more than a dozen centimetres from his body. The man's hand glided along the metal's smooth surface, taking whatever friction the wall could spare. He took another step and another. Slowly, he tiptoed down towards the muddy ground. His caligae hit the next metal step. It squeaked and slid as the soles found no purchase upon the thin layer of water. He slipped, tumbling down the stairs like a ragdoll before faceplanting into the drenched, muddy soil.
The brown, slimy liquid invaded through the gaps and crevices in the chainmail, coating his skin in a freezing mucus. Cyrus shivered. The sky rumbled in amusement, granting him another glimpse of light. His vision turned a blaring white. A sharp stabbing pain slammed into his feet. The limb had been barely touching the metal step. His muscles shook and trembled uncontrollably. The smell of cooking flesh dug into his nostrils. With one final twitch, his body collapsed into a pile, limbs crisscrossed like an amateur sailor tying his first complex knot.
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Cyrus grimaced as the white dots in his vision faded. He commanded his feet to stand, but they refused. The roman yelled at his arms to move. They too were traitors. No matter how he urged his limbs onward, they refused to budge, happy to wallow in the mud. Time ticked on. The rain continued to pelt him. Some pinged off his armour. Others whizzed harmlessly overhead. Many found their mark, seeping underneath the gaps.
He made countless attempts to move the muscles within his body. Over and over, each time with a little more effect. Despite yielding minor improvements, his willpower began to sink into the mud, much like the rest of his physical body. While Cyrus was busy reconquering his flesh, the weather hadn't been dwindling its thumbs either.
The crater, in which Cyrus's head had made an impact with the ground, began to fill up. Normally, this would have been easily fixed by making any number of minimal to large movements. Alas, Cyrus's current state was as normal as a man having gotten struck by an electric current. The roman painstakingly tilted his head to the side. Half of his view now gazed at the grey wall. The other watched the raindrops use the mud slope as a slide. Drip. Drip. Drip. Water pooled in the ditch. His left cheek bathed in it. The water level rose. It was now nearly touching the edge of his left eye. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Cyrus's eyelid closed, barring the water from entering. Drip. Drip. Drip. Slosh. His left arm had moved. A grin appeared on his face, only to disappear quickly as the mud mixture seeped through his lips, tainting his teeth a fece brown. He heard a splatter as water careened over the crater's edge, joining its numerous brethren in the attempt to drown him. Slosh. Slosh. Slosh. The muscles in both his arms were now responding to Cyrus's commands. Half his left nostril was under the water now. Slosh. Slosh. Slosh. Slosh. His nose and mouth sank beneath the rippling, brown surface. Holding his breath, the roman made one final effort. His arms lifted his upper off the ground. It was just enough time for the man to collapse his right arm and roll onto his back. "YES!"
"Imperator, are you alright?!" A legionnaire loomed over him, two of his comrades a few steps behind.
Cyrus wondered whether he should erect a bidental upon the location of the lightning but that thought was soon crossed out as he realised his predicament. Blood flooded his cheeks, giving them a pink hue. He made a decision to get help and lose respect. This idea was further encouraged as the mud reminded the roman of its existence, rubbing itself harshly against his skin.
"Assist your commander in standing up, soldiers!" The three men surrounded the Decanus and grabbed a limb each, leaving one leg dangling as they lifted him off the ground.
Cyrus observed the three legionaries, taking note of the trenches and craters upon their equipment. A rainbow assortment of colours lined the crevices and links in the chain armour, untouched by the falling water. Yellow, green...red? The roman peered at the colour of blood, "Guess I didn't check Shaylah's guide carefully enough," he grumbled. Having a full view of the wall, he saw many more red figures appear from the tree line, some carrying injured, others missing members. "The cost of progress," he consoled himself.
After a few minutes of trodding through the mud, caligas squelching and sinking into the mud, the quartet arrived at the dungeon entrance.
"Why do you always seem to need to be carried?"