<div class="floatleft">(https://pre00.deviantart.net/8bbb/th/pre/i/2017/017/2/2/gideon_jura_face_study_by_artofryanyee-davro7o.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Darwishi</span></span>Shabti Fighter(Gloomblade)/Medium (Reanimated Medium) (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1669483)<br/>14 HP | AC 12 | Status: Fatigued,<br/>Location: Fourth Cell upwards, on the left<br/>Tagging: Open<br/>GM can ignore<br/><hr/>Darwishi was taking a short break for a moment, hunger making it difficult to exercise for an extended period of time. So he looked around from his cell, hands flexing, fists clenching and unclenching. The horns had put him on edge. The Half-Orc had said those were orc horns. It had been so long since he’d held a real weapon, and not just a prison shank, a table or chair leg, or a shiv. He could conjure one.... gods, he wanted to! He wanted to feel the metal in his hands, to make it dance and see those guards holding in their guts. Those horns made him antsy. Those horns were the sweet song of opportunity, approaching over the hill.<br/><br/>“Calm down, the guards are gonna think you’re up to something. Hell, I think you’re up to something.” His cellmate grumbled, staring at the ceiling. “Shut up. How can you be so calm. Didn’t you hear? A warband!” Darwishi sounded... excited. His voice had a husky quality, and his eyes came alive for the first time in years. Freedom or death, either was preferable to here. His fingers tap-tap-tapped against his thighs as he paced. First, he smiled, he had to find a way out of his cell. How? He was finally thinking about how to get out again. How?! HOW?! He forced himself to calm down, relaxing as he thought of the warden’s blood running down his arm as he twisted the knife. The stupid, shocked look on his face as he died, like a cow. That image had kept him... sane, for three years, right after his hope of escape had died. That was his “happy place”.<br/><br/>Darwishi stepped away from the bars, and forced himself to focus on his breathing, slow, rhythmic push and pull of air. They would be here soon, he told himself. The orcs would come, and with it, escape, either from this prison or from this mortal coil. All he had to do was be ready when it happened.