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The cell almost never stopped moving, and its path pretty much never changed. So regular that Lerendar was able to time that steady and rumbling circuit. Could anticipate its short pauses, and knew to the instant when his bubble would merge with those of Tendons, Bony or Legless.
(Good fellows all, and his comrades-in-arms, if a bit quiet. But then, he was their leader. The one who meant to escape.)
He'd awakened in savage, tooth-grinding pain, being shoved along by the rear wall of his prison, which had been spelled to contain him. Not dead, because Dad's last-magic blessing prevented it, but almost too crippled to move. The first few days had been rough. Burning with fever and nightmare, he'd been swept along like a fallen tree in the path of a landslide. Reliving the death and defeat of his father, over and over again.
Twice a circuit, at the intersection with Torchlit Corridor and Bottomless Pit, there was a cloth-wrapped package of food and a flask of weak, faintly bubbling wine. Awful stuff. Turned his stomach, and still he ate everything but the meat, which could have been dried, seasoned anyone. Goblins weren't picky, while gnolls took their flesh mostly raw and still struggling. He thought of mom. Of Bea, Zara and Val. Of what they were facing, without him.
…and he had to get free. Had to warn Starloft. That meant patching himself up and then sneaking off through a scribble of shifting rat-tunnels… somehow.
Time passed, bringing a bit of strength and a spark of hope, for a Tarandahl never gave up and never let fear back him down.
He'd managed to scrounge a few things, as his enclosure rolled through the mountain. Nothing but trash to the old Lerendar, future Silmerana; valuable treasure to this one.
Besides his snapped dagger, he now boasted a cracked, buzzing amulet, an old tinderbox, one mostly full bottle of healing elixir and somebody's final message. A spell-scroll, really, so nothing but siren-scratch to Lerendar, except that its last owner had scrawled a map and a few dirty jokes on the back.
The map wasn't immediately useful, but the jokes were funny, especially the one about the half-orc wench and the pine tree. You had to respect a man who, facing the end, had chosen to go down laughing.
Anyhow, by dragging himself to the cell's leading edge, Lerendar could rest for nearly a candle mark, before the back wall caught up and shoved him along like a massive broom.
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Staying forward with kicks, shoves and scrabbles allowed him to spot things lying on the floor of intersecting tunnels, corners or shafts. All of his useful items had come to him, thus. But, the surprises weren't always good.
One time, a dribble of acid slime streamed through the gap, filling his prison with acrid, throat-searing fog. He burnt it with fire, using flint and steel from his tinderbox and somebody's torn-off, leathery arm.
A few circuits later, he'd been attacked by wolf-sized, eyeless white spiders. Four of them. A fifth had been squashed in half when his cell rolled all the way past their crevice. One down, spraying foul liquid all over the chamber, but then the survivors moved in. Stalked him with raised forelegs and wide-spreading tusks; leaping from floor to ceiling and skittering up on the walls to strike from behind.
They couldn't kill him. No venemous bite or sucking mouthparts got through Dad's blessing, but their webbing could smother and trap, if he let it. Scooting backward on both hands and his rump, using his good leg to kick with, Lerendar smashed one of the spiders into Bony's cell and away. That was two of them out of the fight.
Slashed at a third with Snap, when the monster dropped down on him from the rumbling stone ceiling. The broken blade tore through a spiracle and into the spider's hairy abdomen, releasing gouts of rank fluid. It flipped upside-down off of Lerendar, curling and straightening all eight jointed legs like a clenching fist. Three.
The last two he pelted with stones and debris, waiting until his prison rolled over the Bottomless Pit to lure them into a fatal jump. Didn't time it properly. Instead of slotting in neatly, one of the spiders got scissored in half between the moving floor and well's edge… the other fell in; both of them gone, just the same.
Once, a shade oozed in, black as a starless night. Lerendar frankly expected to die, for he hadn't the magic to deal with such hungering wanderers. But it never attacked him. Merely hovered there; for all the world as though staring. Then it puddled away, stretching like pine gum to pour through a sudden flicker of tunnel.
Worst, though, he'd had to splint his own shattered leg, using spider web, elixir, bits of found leather and the spines of some long-perished beast. Lerendar waited until his cell came to its daily halt. Once the vibration and rumbling ceased, once all those pebbles and sand stopped their bouncing, the wounded elf set to work.
Fainted three times in the process and nearly bit through his lip while pushing that bone into place and wrenching his leg back around with both shaking hands. Elixir helped a little. So did controlled breathing, lurid curses and prayer.
"Dad," he gasped, leaning forward to press down a jagged raw splinter of bone. "Dad, they can't kill me and I can't… I can't die, unless I give up… and let go. But, see… Short-stuff is coming here… doesn't know what he's getting… into. Gnolls, not just goblins. They'll… they'll eat him alive. Eat Bea and Zara and Mom. Have to get out. Have to warn Val. Please… please… Dad… Mom… please help me to do this."
Yeah, so… worst splinting job, ever. He would never get work as a healer, anywhere… but he did it. Maybe Dad's final blessing, maybe just dumb, stubborn Tarandahl pride, but he managed to patch himself up.
Ended up shaking and bloody, nearly in shock from the pain. Lay there sprawled on the cell floor. Prayed to the dawn, if it could hear him so far below ground, that his cell wouldn't start moving again. Not yet.
Please, please… not yet.