A faint sound of soldiers bickering through the walls. Distant cries of seagulls. 

He crawled the short distance to the bed, grabbed the sheets, they tore into strips easily enough. Bernat was always cheap.

Roughly bandaged the cut on his leg. No time to clean it properly. He’d heal tomorrow if he lived.

He looked around the room briefly, in the hope that the room’s occupant, who he vaguely remembered as a sullen-looking merchant, had conveniently left some boots, or socks even. No such luck.

He hesitated for a moment, then started wrapping his feet with the rags. His hands did it reflexively. All those years at the orphanage, first wrapping his own feet, then those of the little ones, once he mattered enough to get shoes.

Sounds of furniture scraping from across the hall, checking for anything hidden.

His breathing was tight and rapid, his mouth dry. That itch in the back of his mind was still there. 

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

It’s dawn. You have to pray.

Not enough time. The Galtans would double check the rooms quickly enough. He just had his cantrips, his channels and one unused Disguise Self.

It would have to be enough.

He knelt carefully by the window, looking down at the soldiers idling below. 

Focused on the young looking one, studied his acne marked face. Long gawky awkward limbs. Bastard was a child but had at least a foot on Orgull. 

Too far to hear the boy's voice properly, but Orgull could imagine it, broken but barely, stammering. 

“Disguise self.” 

The door from this room to the corridor was closed, but his room’s would be open. Given it no longer had a door. They’d see him almost immediately.

Nothing for it. He stepped out. 

“Oh uh, sir?” 

The older voice seemed to be attached to a heavyset man in officers armor. Behind him was a man in a lighter uniform, probably the wizard.

“Private? What were you doing in that room?”

“Oh, uhh, sergeant said for me to go up and help you, ‘stead of hanging around down there being a nuisance.”

As he spoke he moved further into the corridor, with a cringing gait. Getting closer to the stairs while still looking away from them.

“He said I should look for, uhh, imps? He said the, uhh, the hell priests, the Asmodeans I mean, sometimes summon them and tell them to hide? In closets and under beds? Uhh, to jump out at people?

He said I should start with checking the other room and not bother you.”

The officer was trying his best to put on a kindly expression. (Though the wizard behind him was smirking openly). 

“Think the sergeant was having a bit of fun with you boy. We’re all good here. Run back down and tell him there's no imps around here, ‘cept for him.” 

He managed to force a blush. 

“Oh, uhh, I guess so sir.

I’ll say that. Well I’ll say that you said to say that.

Umm. Thank you sir.”

He saluted awkwardly and retreated quickly down the short hall, and started down the stair.

Muffled voices from the room:

“You should really have asked him the passphrase”

“What?”

“Protocol for when there’s risk of infiltration. Same clerics who can do Invisibility get Disguise Self”

“Well you could have said that earlier couldn’t you. We’re not all wizards.” He sighed.

Then in a louder voice “Oi private! What’s today’s passphrase? 

Fuck.

He kept going down the stairs.

He shouted back: “Oh, uh, of course sir, sorry sir. The pass phrase for today is mumble mumble”.

“Stop him!”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He jumped down the uneven stairs in pairs and trios. Trying to keep balance.

He was nearly down to the next floor. But the stairwell was open to let in light. They’d be able to see him from the top.

Above, two sets of footsteps. Lighter ones stopped at the top of the stairwell. Heavier ones continuing downwards, shaking the wood.  

“Web”

Sticky white strands materialized in the air, growing from the corners of stairs, bannisters and the walls. Aimed square at the hellpriest.

He threw himself forward, and by sheer luck, or the blessing of Asmodeus, he tumbled far enough that when the web finished materializing it caught only a leg below the knee.

The wounded one, of course.

Sprawled on the wood, he grabbed the leg with his arms and, screaming, pulled it free. Leaving behind strips of trousers, his foot rags, and some skin behind. 

The wizard had hoped to block the next landing below the priest, so his momentum would carry him into it as it formed, trapping him. But aiming down the tight stairwell was a challenge, and he'd messed up the angle just slightly. 

The officer stopped before the barrier of web and shouted “No contact. Inmediate clear!” 

A trained battle wizard could parse an order and dismiss a spell in mere seconds. But it was just enough time for Orgull to scramble upright and make it to the next floor.  

His leg was screaming whenever he put weight on it, the Disguise leaving it looking incongruously pristine as it left bloody smears on the wood. 

The officer kept up the chase, shouting for reinforcements as he went.  

He hit the bottom of the stairs. 

To the right the common room and exit to street. Too many soldiers. 

To the left, the kitchens leading to the back alley. Guards there, but fewer. 

Through the kitchen door. Keep running.

Figures glimpsed birefly. Shouts of surprise. No uniforms. Bernat? The cook? Not important. Focus.

The door. The alleyway. Escape.