A Candle - Part 1
“I don’t know about you, but I feel it far better to be making a fool of myself instead of making a fool out of others” - Unknown
He wasn’t cold. At least, in any way he had ever felt.
That much was true. But he wasn’t warm either, drifting between what felt like a fever dream and an icy black sleep. Occasionally he’d receive a whack or a shove that would normally wake any mind from the deepest of slumbers, but instead all that came was a sharp pain to his left, his arm. Throbbing and aching, it was a constant bed fellow that always preceded drifting back into the depths of his restraining malaise.
He’d try to rouse himself numerous times but his mind seemed cut off from his body, numb and isolated. He felt pain, he felt exhausted, and with a suppressed hunger nibbling in the background. His dreams drifted to thoughts of Dalaran, an argument in the street with a friend, yes a friend.
Or so I thought? No, he is your friend… he is.
They were talking in the street, in hushed tones, about something important or… hidden? His friend was in trouble. Or was he? Someone had done something wrong, or he’d perceived it without the notice of others. He’d extended his hand to reassure, but in that earnest fragile moment the screaming started.
Nerubians.
He had fought, defending a portal, shoving his friend through at the last moment to then–
…Darkness.
This forever unwaking moment. He needed to wake up, but didn’t know how. This loop of a dark fitful slumber, only to be subdued by the pain in his arm just as he felt a semblance of what would lead to stirring.
How many hours was it since his last dream? Hiking the side of ironforge mountain, soft rain in Loch modan, or an adventure with the Morod in some far off dungeon. Time had lost meaning when he felt a grip about him, his body surging with pain that he finally felt a rasp escape his lips. He’d not been subdued with that numbing jab in his arm for some time, was he finally shaking loose?
His eyes fluttered. It was instinctive as he felt his face compressed upon. He was inside something but didn’t have light, even if brief enough, to comprehend what. His hands were not bound, but were hard pressed to his sides, locked in place by the lack of space. He tried to turn his head but scarce managed an inch before the onset of motion made him feel feint, swaying left and right. Or was it back and forth?
Sounds were around him, the first thing he had heard in what felt like a life time, voices? Whispers? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if he wanted to speak or stay silent–
WHAM.
His body encasing prison assaulted him from every direction, gravity was flipped and seemed to make a dance of its own, ricocheting him from one hard surface to a harder one before coming to a steadily slowing roll. As fast as it had started, it was over, everything was still. He was face down, on the ground. Inside something.
Still. You’re still now, but what to do?
He tried his hands, fingers grasped weakly against what felt like hair, or thread. His wrists were held too tight to his body to be able to scratch or pull, but maybe if he could slowly push them up to his chest?
He turned his head with a rasp, nose and beard rustled against the mesh of the fabric. The material was close enough to smell but had no scent. But was it close enough for his mouth, his teeth, to bite. It was difficult at first, to muster the strength and dexterity of the neck to even bite a thread, but with time and no small bit of wriggling he’d begun to tear out one chunk at a time. His hands were weak, his left arm barely had any strength, but he’d pushed them as far as the front of his neck.
Hours passed, the awkwardness of the method meant his jaw had cramped. The snugness of his imprisonment was also hindering the freedom of his arms but he’d managed to raise them high enough that he could use one hand to pull at the fabric and make steadier, if messier, progress.
Then came the first glimpse of light. A sort of light. A different dark.
It was pitch black outside, beyond the tiny peep hole he had created, he could comprehend the gleaming of shapes but not much else. Such was the depths of the inky shadows beyond the current scope of his vision.
True exhaustion was setting in now, fully awake he could comprehend every ache and pain. His body was bruised, his head probably concussed. And to top it off his upper left arm was numb with pain, from some unseeable wound. But at long last, he pushed his right hand and arm out… then his pained left.
What followed could only be described as the most confusing and ill-conceived emergence of a bearded caterpillar in the history of Dwarven kind. Flopping, flailing, slamming his own chin into the dirt as he kicked his body free. With a push of his good arm he finally managed to push the fabric off with a final huff only to find freedom in a cold, dark world.
It is often said Dwarves see well in the Dark, and it’s true, but only to a point. Even here the old Wizard found himself straining to make out his surroundings. He sat between verges of grass, or moss, or mossy grass that was a strange species between the two. Around him were many rock formations covered in bizarre plants of lilac and dark violet hues. Where he sat was different, it was rocky but worn, a low lulling dirt path or half cobbled road complete even with wheel tracks from carts. To his left was his former prison, so obvious and clear to the mind’s realization now he was outside of it. A webbed cocoon of Nerubian creation. He rubbed his left arm sorely.
They knocked you out, sedated you repeatedly with numbing poisons in the arm then wrapped you up in that for Odyn only knows what.
His vision whirled a moment, hunger struck his stomach and aches from the exertion of escape set on him all at once. His right hand moved to grab his hat and– nothing. He cursed in words only Dwarves knew and the like that made brave Knights wince. His hat had everything in it. Everything.
The pocket dimension within held his staff, his books, his potions, tools, extra clothes… everything. All he had was his tunic, boots and trousers. And rings! Praise be to Khaz, he still had his enchanted rings on his hands…
“–Mmfgh! Mmfff!”
He started, ready to leap to his feet and run but found himself dazed and with backside firmly planted on dirt. He twisted his neck, left and right, seeking the source of the sudden noise. And found nothing, just the midnight fauna and fungi among the crags beyond.
”Mmfmghfh! ghrmmgh!!” it came again.
Behind!
He turned using his whole body and hazily came to a knee. There it was, writhing and meekly wriggling, a heap of body sized threads.
Another survivor!
He tumbled, on his knees and half on elbows the sum of some twelve agonizing feet and began pulling, ripping and biting at the mess of web that encased his kindred prisoner. One hand, his incisors, the pressing of his boot as he tore with his only working arm against and alongside the person within. Soon enough he had formed a hole big enough for a face to appear, but as yet, none did he see.
He squinted, leaning close, gazing inside the sundered and torn gap he had made in order to gleam the identity of the one he had hoped to help. At first silence, no movement.
“H-… hello?” He asked in hushed tones, leaning closer.
Then a rustle, and a murmur, a shifting of weight within before a shape half in shadow sporting whiskers and a snout revealed all.
“You no take candle, Gnaaah!!!”
