[center][hr][h3][color=Gray][b]Amistad Jail Cell[/b][/color][/h3]Feat. [@tlaloc] as Big Jim and [@TaintedMushroom] as [url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5550181]Westley Maston[/url]
[img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a6/9a/c3/a69ac3f07984da7325cd53772410d006.jpg[/img][hr][/center]

Life had a funny sort of habit. Whenever Maston tried to do anything, anything at all really, it would do its damndest to make sure he started off on the worst foot possible. It was a constant trend all throughout his life, a dark cloud of bad luck and despair seemed a constant companion in lockstep beside him. Once again he’d found himself on the wrong side of the law and in a jail cell, a far cry from how he’d intended to spend the night. And even further from how he’d seen things going for himself. Maston sucked back a deep snort and spat with a resounding splat into the corner of the cell. With it he spat his complaints and problems, metaphorically speaking of course. It never did him any good dwelling on his fortune and now wouldn’t prove to change anything from the usual. 

There wasn’t much else to do but to get comfortable and settle in for the night. He hadn’t paid the big guy who’d pointed the finger much mind since he’d been tossed in a cell, man seemed to have his own problems. He’d certainly seemed more docile, likely feeling sorry for himself as Maston had almost caught himself doing. Maston took a seat on the cot before removing his boots, vest, and his shirt, all of which he folded neatly and stacked in the corner in a fashion that he’d carried over from his time in the military. With naught else to do Maston decided to settle in for the night, best to see what was in store for the future at this point, see about possibly heading further west if possible. Maston didn’t like the feeling he had when thinking about sticking around, it would be better to move on given the way things had started out. Well Maston wouldn’t be doing any moving anywhere until he was out of the predicament he was in and that likely wasn’t gonna be happenin’ till mornin’. For now there was nothing left for him but sleep, and so sleep he did.

[hr]

Like most nights Maston slept fitfully, tossing and turning, mumbling and twitching. Sleep was something Maston had long since struggled with, ever since the war. It had only really gotten worse over the years, eventually though he’d learned to just deal with it. Some nights were worse, others not so bad. This was one of those not so bad nights, unfortunately the sound of wheezing broke Maston from the shallow bit of sleep he was managing to maintain.

The suffocating heat of the jail cell felt heavier than before, thick with something unnatural. The scent of sweat and something rancid — something like meat gone bad — filled the air. Maston could almost feel it clinging to his skin like an unnatural humidity permeating the space. Across from him, in the other cell, Jim stood pressed against the iron bars, his thick, calloused hands wrapped around them, shaking violently. Maston had seen many an episode from men who’d done awful things and had broken minds from it. This wasn’t that, Maston almost could feel it in his bones, something was wrong.

Where most men might find themselves paralyzed in fear Maston found himself leaping to his feet. The room hadn’t much in the way of potential weapons but Maston quickly picked up the wooden stool in the corner of the room. It would have to do. It had required him to momentarily take his eyes off Jim and when he returned his gaze he almost stopped dead in his tracks.

The sight before him would stop any man cold. Jim wasn’t just gripping the bars; he was [i]bending[/i] them. The heavy iron groaned under the strain as Jim’s entire body shook with the effort. His muscles bulged hideously beneath his skin, veins pulsing under the pale moonlight. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils blown so large they swallowed the colour, and his mouth was foaming, a thick red froth dribbling down his chin. 

Maston’s imminent danger snapped him out of it, without further hesitation he stepped forward and struck at Jims hands with a brutal swing of the stool. His first two swings hit more metal than flesh, the angle and the approach were just terrible for the shape of Maston’s improvised weapon. Regardless he swung and struck gold on the third swing, it looked as if he’d smashed Jim’s index finger. Jim did not stop.

Jim’s gaze snapped to Maston, feral and crazed, and a low growl escaped his throat. His teeth, dull and cracked, gnashed together, and his tongue darted out like an animal sniffing blood. Speaking of blood; the red on his chin seemed to be of his own making, with his tongue looking as if he'd chewed it like a tough lump of steak. Something was very wrong with him, and it wasn't just the drink.

“Help me,” Jim rasped, his voice guttural. He pulled harder at the bars, the metal twisting as if it were soft clay. His fingers scraped through the gap, claws of flesh desperately reaching for Maston.

"Please..." Jim’s voice was barely a whisper, more a plea than a demand. But the madness in his gaze spoke volumes.

Jim’s fingers clawed at the bars, nails splintering as he tried to squeeze through the small gap he’d made. His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, his chest heaving like an animal in the throes of a hunt. The stench of rot was stronger now, clinging to him like a second skin. He pushed, harder and harder, bruising himself, testing the strength of his bones. His arm stretched farther through the bars, skin rubbing bloody against the iron as he groped wildly for Maston.

Maston took another wild swing of the stool and Jim’s waving hand snatched it from him unexpectedly. Maston wasn’t prepared for the return swing that caught him in the shoulder and sent him teetering hard to the left into the wall of the cell. Maston saw stars and heard a whining sound, and for a moment he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing on the floor. It came back to him a moment slower than he’d have preferred and Maston came to realize quite a bit had passed while he was on the ground. 

Jim had managed to twist and contort his shoulder and head through the gap in the bars, he'd have widened it in the time it had taken for Maston to come back to his senses. Unfortunately the size of the gap paired with the size of Jim and the ferocious single minded intent behind his attack meant he’d basically wedged himself between the bars in a way that restricted his breathing. Jim’s face was growing bluer by the second and the frantic swings of outstretched arm were growing more half-hearted and losing steam with every passing second. 

Maston was unsure what had just transpired, all he knew is that for once he’d been lucky. Not so much the other fellow. Maston was going to have a very interesting conversation on his hands this morning though, that thing was for sure.