A few loud crashing noises resounded from a sealed off room within the garrison, attracting the attention of a number of guards on active-duty. “What is he doing in there?” one asks, looking to his buddies in confusion. “Beats me,” another says in response, crossing his arms as he waits for access to the room once more. A candle hanging from the wall beside the door provided the only light in the room, enough that one could read the inscription on the door, “Captain’s Office.”

Drake finally let out a grunt of pain as he pulled off the last piece of armor from his suit. The blows he received from Flake the other day fractured a few links of his chainmail, which then lodged themselves into his wrists. He was bulky and enduring enough to ignore the pain for an impossible span of time, but that didn’t make it go away. As he waited for his appointed man to return, he decided to remove his armor and tend to his various injuries. The man stood tall enough to tower over almost any man, had enough muscle mass to make an average soldier look like a stick figure, and appeared to have never shaved in his life. His figure didn’t help as he tried to stretch a little, taking his time to enjoy the somewhat fresh air against his skin.

His brown-red hair was deepened by the light of the candle he had placed on his worktable, the same light he used to look at his injuries. Using a very thin dagger, he made a few small cuts to loosen the blood clots around the metal shrapnel, allowing him to pull out the pieces more easily. After he pulled out the last piece, he wrapped some light bandaging around his blood-covered wrists and walked over to a bucket of water to clean himself a little.

After a bit of maintenance, the soldier analyzed his suit of armor. For the most part, the chain links were still functional, despite being over five years old. He attributed this feat to his proficiency in combat. The sections near his wrist were destroyed in multiple places, along the angle of Flake’s cut. He then analyzed the plates, and decided that he’d need a new wrist-section, because Flake’s prank had destroyed the plate in this region. The helmet was salvageable, being a rather thick piece of armor, but he decided to get a full repair soon, just to be sure. “I have the money, so I’ll make it work,” he commented to himself, starting to fit the armor back over his bulk.

By the time he had finished with his left arm, a few desperate knocks on his door sounded, and a voice, “Sir, I have accomplished my task.” Drake yelled back, “hold your’ horses! I’ll address you in a minute,” and sped up his suiting process. Upon tightening the last strap on his wrist, he grabbed his helmet and, walking towards the door, commanded, “Attention!” The soldier outside the door made a loud thump sound as his feet met in the stance of attention, then the door to the Captain’s office slammed open. “What do you have to report, soldier?” Drake asked, his eyes shooting out through the helmet.

“Sir!The prisoner has been escorted to a small chamber near the basement of the First Dungeon, sir!” the soldier responded, saluting briefly as he started speaking. Drake nodded and curtly said, “dismissed!” as he shut the door behind him, motioning for a guard to stand guard as he walked through the garrison towards the exit.

Drake left the garrison and walked through the streets of Talgot without much of a thought. He knew Delta Six by heart now, so he decided to relax as he continued towards his destination. Fairly soon, the captain approached the First Dungeon and stopped at the gate. “I demand entrance,” he commented, staring over at the left turret beside the gate. A soldier in the turret, having noted the giant, quickly motioned to the operators to permit him entrance. After this, a few guards walked over to the outside of the gates and stood guard as the iron bars slowly rose, leaving Drake’s path open.

The guard marched into the establishment and, upon weaving his way through the volatile mess of a place, he reached a much smaller garrison of a few guards and demanded, “Attention!” The guards in the room immediately shot away from their beds and chairs, shooting into the stance of attention with a quick salute. “I am here for a role inspection, provide me with your list of captives,” Drake commented, eyeing the guard nearest the table. Quickly, a different guard ran over to the table, pulled an unsealed scroll out from a drawer, and ran over to Drake, saluting him once again as he held out the scroll. Drake collected the roll of paper and, unfurling it, scanned the lines. “So it is true…” he mumbled, spotting the name of the newest captive.

Another guard immediately talked out of turn, exclaiming, “I was stunned by it as well! I never thought we’d-“ Drake quickly and sharply interrupted, “You are still at attention!” The guard who spoke then quickly silenced himself and returned to his composure. A minute passed of Drake scanning the paper, then he returned it to the guard. “I reserve the right to take control of the supervision of any and all prisoners in the small chambers at any and all hours for the next extended duration. Understood?” The guards in the room all responded, “Sir yes Sir!” and, with this said, Drake turned to leave and said, “at ease.”

From there, Drake returned to the garrison, and then to his office. He had a great deal of reading and paperwork yet to do, because his positions throughout the day prevented him from accomplishing his true task. As a result, instead of sleeping, he decided to remain awake that night to complete his assignments and confirmation requests. “The things I do for this city…” he grumbled, dipping his quill pen in the ink well yet again.