Out of the Abyss – Day 3: Whispers and Cracks

 The third day began differently.

Not with the sharp crack of whips or the bark of orders—
—but with a silence that watched.

Balack opened her eyes slowly. The damp stone pressed against her back. Chains rattled lightly as she stretched with almost feline elegance.

Around her, the others stirred — slower, heavier than before. Something in the air felt wrong.

Skyme curled tighter against Balack’s side, muttering in her sleep, something about spiders that sang.
Edith woke laughing—a breathless, giddy sound—as if she’d just heard the punchline to a terrible joke.
Zharina sat up instantly, scanning the pen, her body tense like a bowstring.

Only Jimjar seemed unfazed.
"Nightmares, eh?" he said brightly, dusting himself off. "Bet you five silver it gets worse."

He waited, grinning, hand out expectantly. No one took the bet.

The guards came late this morning. Sloppy. Tense. Even they seemed disturbed.

The prisoners were split up again for chores. Balack, Zharina, Skyme, Edith, Jimjar, and Eldeth stayed together.

Today's task: cleaning the stairs and rope bridges—the ones that stretched out over the endless drop below.

The air was cool. The webs below shivered occasionally with the faint movements of the spiders, waiting.

As they worked, Jimjar sidled up next to Balack, whispering:
"Bet you a gold coin one of us falls."

Balack smiled without looking at him, her hands delicate as she scrubbed at the filthy wood.
"I find wagering on death... so terribly gauche," she said sweetly.

Jimjar shrugged. "Suit yourself. Bet’s still open."

Skyme, dragging a heavy scrub brush half her size, giggled.
"I’ll bet I can spit off the bridge and hit a spider!"

Without waiting, she leaned over dangerously far and spat. The glob drifted downward, missing by a mile.

Jimjar cackled. "You owe me two silvers, short-stab!"

Balack reached out with one hand and gently caught the back of Skyme's shirt before the halfling-like rogue could tumble over the edge.

"Careful, my thorn," she whispered. "We’re not ready to die yet."

Across the bridge, Zharina worked grimly, ignoring the chaos around her. Her hands moved with military precision, but her shoulders were tight. Too tight.

The dreams had touched even her.

Edith, meanwhile, was scrubbing the ropes while humming loudly—a chaotic, broken tune with no rhythm, no sense. She grinned at everyone who passed by.

At midday, as they rested briefly near the base of one of the stalactite towers, something unexpected happened.

The scarred drow, Jorlan Duskryn, walked by — slowly, almost lazily — trailing behind two younger guards.
His ruined hand hung limply at his side, but his sharp eyes... his eyes flickered over the prisoners.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Calculating.

For a heartbeat, he locked eyes with Balack.

It was brief—
—but the weight of it lingered, like a knife hidden under a dinner plate.

Balack offered him a small, polite nod, her smile never faltering.
Inside, her mind filed away his bitterness, his brokenness, with surgical precision.

As Jorlan disappeared into the shadows, Edith whispered, grinning madly:
"That one's broken. I like broken things."

Balack murmured back, voice low and full of hidden teeth:
"Broken things are sharper, dear. Easier to turn into weapons."

Jimjar, sitting cross-legged and balancing pebbles on his nose, chuckled.
"I bet you a silver that scar-face hates his boss more than he hates us."

Skyme bounced on the balls of her tiny feet.
"I bet he helps us escape!" she said brightly.

Jimjar grinned wider. "I’ll double that bet."

Eldeth said nothing, but her frown deepened. She didn't trust drow, broken or not.

As the work ended and the prisoners shuffled back into their pen, a quiet tension clung to the air.

Not fear.

Not quite hope, either.

Something waiting.

That night, the dreams returned.

Worse now.
The tunnels twisted in impossible shapes.
The shadows whispered in languages no sane mind should understand.
The sound of buzzing — insectile and maddening — grew louder.

Somewhere in the blackness, Balack smiled in her sleep, lips curling into something too sharp for kindness.