At this, John looks skeptical. He gives Daemon another look up and down, but finally grumbles agreement. If the man is so confident in his ability to fight, John will not deny his usefulness until it's been put to the test.
"I suppose so." He leans forward over his knees, his voice dropping lower. Conspiratorial.
"Each carries a long metal hook, which they use to lift and lower the buckets. That's how they provide us with water." There is something in his voice there, a hesitation he's skirting quickly around— but he hurries on: "If we can seize the hook, we may be able to overpower their grip and pull a guard down into this pit. We will have to kill them quickly and quietly."
"Simple enough." At least, in theory. Anything can still go wrong, but less complexity means fewer places where things can fail. Daemon glances up towards the lip of the pit above them and tries to gauge the distance. The prospect of taking a life doesn't seem to concern him at all. "And the numbers favour us."
There was only a single bucket; somehow, he didn't expect another to show up just because there were two of them here now. Why send more than one man to do the job?
"But you still have doubts."
It's not a question, and he's started to watch John again. Daemon's not exactly sure what he'd picked up on, but it's also not unexpected. He would be more suspicious of the person who took him fully at his word at this point.
"They make their rounds... infrequently." Only often enough to keep a prisoner alive. One prisoner. Now that John has company in this pit, they certainly won't be coming to throw down any food. "We should have an opportunity soon, but after that? It will be a long and difficult stretch of waiting."
The tactic is frankly pathetic, juvenile. John already knows this game: they will be given insufficient water to keep two human bodies alive, and the King will treat it as a kindness, that he has so generously given John an excuse.
"We must not fail in this attempt. And we don't even have a weapon."
They could pack the bucket with soil and swing it with some force, but he will not suggest it. The King would find that far too funny.
It's a familiar tactic, though hardly Daemon's preference whether he's on the receiving end or the one passing the sentence. Too impatient. Under the present circumstances, it's probably best that he and the king don't see eye to eye on this.
"Then we must not fail," he agrees, though without the same easy confidence as before. John has been here longer, so Daemon is sure he knows exactly what's at stake if they fail now that two people are occupying this space. It's not wishful thinking; it's a warning. He has no intention of wasting away waiting for his death in this pit.
"Presumably, we'll have access to its hook, but I would expect that to be unwieldy at best." He'd handled lances and the occasional spear often enough in his time, but those had all been purpose-built for combat. He has much lower expectations for the bucket hook.
"Meaning what we do in the few seconds we'll have after the fall will likely determine whether we live or die."
"Right," he agrees, and regards Daemon carefully again. To give this man control over their only weapon, and simply hope that he won't be stabbed in the back... Well. There are ways he can guard against that eventuality, at least for now.
"Once we reach the top, I know the path out of these caverns. If we are lucky, there will be enough mist to cover our escape. We will have to stay low, keep to the stalagmites, and avoid the remaining guards on patrol." His companion would be a fool to turn on him before they're truly free. Still, John speaks grudgingly: "You look... strong. You seize the hook and pull. I will wait alongside the wall of the pit, and keep the guard occupied when they hit the ground. Then you deliver the final blow."
He exhales the heavy sigh of a man steeling himself. "The odds are not in our favor. But then, they very rarely are. And I would rather die here, fighting, than waste away in the dark."
"And you won't make the same mistake that landed you here the first time, I'm sure," he says half-jokingly. Commentary aside, Daemon knows it's the best plan he's going to get under the circumstances. He appreciates the transactional approach instead of something messier. It's neat and simple, and he likes knowing where the edges are. He likes to think his death would be an inconvenience.
"Are you always so grim on the eve of battle?" More of a figure of speech than an estimate of how long he thinks they'll have to wait. "Normally, I'd have a drink, but this king is a poor host."
Now that they have a plan, they only have to execute it when the time comes, and Daemon stands because he can't bear to sit still any longer; he is incompatible with captivity. His pacing has a secondary purpose, at least, not unlike when he would walk the field for hours before a tournament, counting distances and feeling the footing to take advantage of the terrain. He listens for anything that might give a clue to the world above, continuing to distract himself enough to keep all of this within a tolerable state.
"Fuck the odds. Focus on your job: don't die before they do. It seems I need you in one piece, so you may rest assured that I'll bring an end to things as quickly as possible."
John growls low agreement that he won't make the same mistake twice. He has yet to fully decide which mistake that was: facing the King, or trusting Kayne, or losing Arthur in the first place. He does not plan to repeat any of those. He certainly does not plan to wait patiently in this pit.
From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
If he wanted to keep rationalising this as some kind of trial, the timing certainly seems to support it. It's in the back of his mind as Daemon ducks quickly to press against the wall at the first hint of movement from above, and for a moment, he glances skyward suspiciously. Was someone watching after all?
His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."
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no subject
"I suppose so." He leans forward over his knees, his voice dropping lower. Conspiratorial.
"Each carries a long metal hook, which they use to lift and lower the buckets. That's how they provide us with water." There is something in his voice there, a hesitation he's skirting quickly around— but he hurries on: "If we can seize the hook, we may be able to overpower their grip and pull a guard down into this pit. We will have to kill them quickly and quietly."
no subject
There was only a single bucket; somehow, he didn't expect another to show up just because there were two of them here now. Why send more than one man to do the job?
"But you still have doubts."
It's not a question, and he's started to watch John again. Daemon's not exactly sure what he'd picked up on, but it's also not unexpected. He would be more suspicious of the person who took him fully at his word at this point.
no subject
The tactic is frankly pathetic, juvenile. John already knows this game: they will be given insufficient water to keep two human bodies alive, and the King will treat it as a kindness, that he has so generously given John an excuse.
"We must not fail in this attempt. And we don't even have a weapon."
They could pack the bucket with soil and swing it with some force, but he will not suggest it. The King would find that far too funny.
no subject
"Then we must not fail," he agrees, though without the same easy confidence as before. John has been here longer, so Daemon is sure he knows exactly what's at stake if they fail now that two people are occupying this space. It's not wishful thinking; it's a warning. He has no intention of wasting away waiting for his death in this pit.
"Presumably, we'll have access to its hook, but I would expect that to be unwieldy at best." He'd handled lances and the occasional spear often enough in his time, but those had all been purpose-built for combat. He has much lower expectations for the bucket hook.
"Meaning what we do in the few seconds we'll have after the fall will likely determine whether we live or die."
no subject
"Once we reach the top, I know the path out of these caverns. If we are lucky, there will be enough mist to cover our escape. We will have to stay low, keep to the stalagmites, and avoid the remaining guards on patrol." His companion would be a fool to turn on him before they're truly free. Still, John speaks grudgingly: "You look... strong. You seize the hook and pull. I will wait alongside the wall of the pit, and keep the guard occupied when they hit the ground. Then you deliver the final blow."
He exhales the heavy sigh of a man steeling himself. "The odds are not in our favor. But then, they very rarely are. And I would rather die here, fighting, than waste away in the dark."
no subject
"Are you always so grim on the eve of battle?" More of a figure of speech than an estimate of how long he thinks they'll have to wait. "Normally, I'd have a drink, but this king is a poor host."
Now that they have a plan, they only have to execute it when the time comes, and Daemon stands because he can't bear to sit still any longer; he is incompatible with captivity. His pacing has a secondary purpose, at least, not unlike when he would walk the field for hours before a tournament, counting distances and feeling the footing to take advantage of the terrain. He listens for anything that might give a clue to the world above, continuing to distract himself enough to keep all of this within a tolerable state.
"Fuck the odds. Focus on your job: don't die before they do. It seems I need you in one piece, so you may rest assured that I'll bring an end to things as quickly as possible."
no subject
From above and distantly comes the shuffle of a jailer, a damp and dragging bulk. If the timing is strangely convenient, John gives no notice of this: he does not react with anything but steely determination. He rises opposite Daemon, steps back to press his shoulders to the dirt wall of the pit, jaw set.
"We can drink once we've won." There is a grim certainty to his tone, as the plodding steps draw closer. "Fuck the odds. Good luck."
In the mist above, something moves. It appears first as a rounded, hulking shape, thick-set arms and shoulders in the fog. The proportions are wrong: the movements are inhuman. A long pole of some unearthly metal, dark and iridescent, descends in a blind and prodding path down into the pit. At its tip is a hook for the bucket.
On the other end is the jailer. If Daemon heaves it down, only then will he have a clear view of their enemy: broad and toadlike, faceless but for the wet churning of tentacles.
no subject
His eyes refocus on the strange metal hook probing in the gloom for the bucket instead, and they follow it to the decidedly inhuman shape shrouded in the mists at its origin. Whatever it is, it's big and cumbersome, which he hopes might be used to their advantage.
As the hook nears its goal, Daemon shoots one last look at John before he darts across to grab the pole with both hands. Treating it like a spear, he rams it forward hard until he feels meat and keeps pushing even when the metal bites painfully into his hands with the effort. He hopes it's hurting the jailer just as much, at least; if it starts making unpleasant noises, he'll assume he's doing it right.
"Get ready," Daemon rasps through grit teeth as he feels resistance at the other end of the pole. He assumes it is the jailer, intending to push it away or pull it back in — it doesn't matter. He stops stabbing and gives one sharp tug instead that sends him stumbling backwards over the stupid bucket.
Suddenly jerked toward the pit's rim, the thing up above teeters on edge precariously, scrambling to find footing as a spray of gravel dislodges and tumbles down.
"Just fall, you—"
More pebbles slide out from underfoot, and Daemon watches as the top-heavy lump pitches forward, and gravity does the rest to bring it crashing down to the stone floor with them. Without the mists to obscure it any longer, Daemon is somewhere between horrified and revolted at the sight of the misshapen creature.
Knock it down and bash its head in. That seemed plausible until... right now. Did it even have a head?
"Alright," he says, getting back up and trying not to look disturbed by this. "Your turn."