Luingear sat in the middle of his small cell, reaching out with his mind to prod the walls around him, feeling for weaknesses to exploit. He felt all the cracks and weaknesses in the mortur that held the rocks together, and all the imperfections of the stone walls, but with no actual exploitable weakness.
"Scheisse, did I get the one good cell?", he thought to himself.
As he prodded at the lock to his cell, he felt the tumblers, the incredibly simple tumblers. He pushed slightly, and felt them move with just the force of his mind.
"Sìl vafèn shî, ka?", he thought to himself in his Doânnan language, as he manipulated the lock, opening it in a few seconds.
YOU ARE READING
The Pain of Prophetic Heroes
FantasyAh! A new traveler! Come and sit, I will tell you a story of heroes!
