<div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/0y8wEtc.jpg)  </div><br/>Flickering light from somewhere... maybe a torch.  Zabeth had seen dungeons before... those actively in-service and derelict ones-- there was no limit to the horror that could await in either, whether in a nightmarish creature's rending claws or at the nod of a state-approved noble to his head torturer.<br/><br/>She dove back, for some reason finding the moment to cover her breasts with one hand and twist her knees to conceal her nakedness, but the knee-jerk reaction gave way to practiced stealth.  The whole cell was cast in shadow but for the flickering column of dingy light; even naked and ivory-white, she could hide in this kind of shadow. She thought she head someone blow their nose-- delicately, like a woman.  Perhaps another prisoner.<br/><br/>Instantly, her mouth felt dry.  Painfully so... but she stayed light on the balls of her feet and crouched low, in profile, disappearing into those shadows to regather her thoughts.<i> Dungeon.   Barrister Horton's, perhaps.  No... too dim.  He keeps it lit to watch the prisoners. Please don't be Lord Unsil.</i>She began to edge her way along the shadows, aware that she must observe from within the cell, know what she may be entering into as best she can.<br/><br/><i>The cell door's open.  Who keeps a prisoner in an open cell?  A man who has lain traps.  Please don't be Lord Unsil, please have him stay dead... or did he leave compatriots?  Others of the... freakish... cult, or sect? Or others in his employ, or of his rank, who want revenge?</i>She looked for the traps.  She detected a slight rise in the floor under her bare left foot, and her bare toes felt the soft yield of dug earth, contrary to the stone's sandy surface.  Someone had been digging.<br/><br/><i>Are they watching even now?</i>She heard a voice... a guard, possibly close.  Acoustics were tricky with the stone and iron.<i>What did he say?  Something about 'singing a girl,' and 'undress her?'  Oh hells upon hells, he may be coming for me.</i><br/><br/>Immediately she checked the fresh earth, hoping it was the remnant of an escape tunnel, that she might buy some advantage there-- hoping it wasn't a massive rat's nest, or if it was that the rats were pack-rats and may have squirreled away a piece of broken glass, or a nail, or any other thing she could improvise as a weapon-- but no, a block, wood--<i> oh thank the gods.</i><br/><br/>She hoisted it from the heap gently, as if leveling some crystal chalice, and at even the soft patter of loose earth she listened intently for footsteps-- suddenly cold, she was shaking, her pale skin drenched in sweat that still smelled of the lotus smoke and stink of whore's perfume.<br/><br/>She found the hinges, gauged the weight-- felt for anything shifting, or metal straining tight, within that might hint at a trap.  Soft shift of tiny things... possibly coins, nails... Then she ventured the light to open the lid--<br/><br/>Cloth.  Be it a funeral shroud or a dame's napkin, she would take it.  They were some dingy men's cotton things-- she hesitated only to pass the fabric over carefully for pins, spiders, or other nasty things, then set the twin garments aside in the shadow.  Then hairpins, a file-- whoever had been her before her had similar designs for these that she did, no doubt.<br/><br/>Satisfied that she'd garnered all contents, she swiftly pulled she shirt over her bare, shivering skin, felt the rough caress over her hard nipples, and was glad for it though it clung to her cold sweat.  The pants were next, but she took care to tear off some of the loose, ragged hems at the cuffs-- the loose strings would be good kindling, or quick rigging to improvise a knife out of glass, or even the file.  The hairpins, she carefully set into her cropped hair, tucking them safely behind her ears so that, even if she must run, they have some hope of staying put, and she cinched the pants tight on her narrow waist-- narrower than she thought it was before the opium den.<br/><br/>Finally, the file-- she tied a knot in the loose waist that slung down well below her navel, though it sagged so low as to almost bare her nether hairs.  Then, palming the file like a dagger, she peered once more into the alcove and sidled out the open door.  Never had she felt so exposed as this, so certain she was walking into an ambush.  The chest itself might burn, or make for a hastily-thrown missile-- if a clumsy and flimsy one-- so she closed its latch, securing within only the scraps of fabric and threads she'd freed from the ragged pants, and edged her way into the open area of her cell.