Time, such a concept, the reality of endless progression and the catalyst behind mortality, time is a stagnant beast, tucked away within a niche of preeminence, claiming its tolls and forever inflicting its untold wrath on the world. Praesule had much time, his incarceration a shocking reminder that he was little more than a man and as every valuable second slipped away, impossible to reclaim, he became aware of the necessity of escape. As a man who had once saw every day as a ripe opportunity, a stretch of time in which he could exert his productivity and cultivate his plans uninhibited, prison was certainly a dull place to be.
The good Doctor had once found comfort in captivity, the burdening facade he had expertly constructed washed away with confinement, his shoulders alleviated of the crushing weight of deception, he finally no longer needed to hide. But that exemption soon grew dull, rotting away and supplanted by apathy. Praesule despite all the depravity he reaped, all the fear and degradation his crimes sowed, prided himself on his unique insight into the human condition, his ability to understand, comprehend and perhaps even empathize with those around him left him a very special kind of monster, a uniqueness that he grew fond of, a narcissism that set him apart from the banality of other murderers. With the dissipation of his contentedness to remain incarcerated, the malignant recesses of his mind became the mother of a machination, fostering the intricacy he was known to propagate.
He studied, day in and day out, when the coruscating shafts of light beamed through the structure or when the insidious tendrils of darkness dominated the jailhouse, distilled only by small fiery spheres dispersed sporadically across the elongated halls. He was close to an exit, though cordoned off by thick reinforced iron bars, something that would be close to impossible to unlock without the correct key. A problem he eventually would overcome, but how?
The Ripper analyzed the inhabitants of the jailhouse, deducing the weakest from the strongest, the fastest from the slowest and the loyal from the disloyal. The process was tedious, taking many weeks and throughout those long days he noted the schedules exacted throughout the week. His days no longer consisted of a categorized hour, no, his minutes were now the movements of the guards and his hours were the rotations of the rostered Watcher's that patrolled the halls.
"Praesule, dinner's served." Came a familiar voice.
The Guard was liked among the prisoners, for the simple fact that he delivered the food, still this didn't bother the Doctor.
"Thank you Mister Tervin." Praesule responded swiftly, the charismatic tenor of his appreciation had been lulling the Guard's confidence for months, a constant reassurance that even among the horrific natives of the jailhouse, there was a single creature that retained the ability of courtesy. It was this false belief of safety that provided the Ripper with the upper hand. The men and women of the Watch had been warned of Praesule's coerciveness, but the Doctor had a way of negating caution. With the clashing weaponry of training recruits and the dim violet light of dusk cascading through the heightened windows, Praesule made his move.
With a tortuous knowledge of anatomy, subduing the Guard didn't take much effort, two steps forward and a rapid extension made for a shocking jab at his targets throat and their subsequent spiral into the world of unconsciousness. The Guard was entrusted with keys, delegated the task of securing the back door in the evening when the recruits no longer needed use of it, an advantage that the good Doctor quickly became aware of. Safe for the moments proceeding the incapacitation of the Guard, Praesule relied on the characteristic grunts and twangs of metal to shroud the noise coming from his location. Expertly rustling through the pockets of his victim, he alleviated him of his keys hurriedly, rather aware of his tight timeframe.
A spirited click audibly projected his success, and the thick cell door swung wide, offering the Ripper his first taste of freedom, his first taste of life outside of that awful chamber. His next movements had been accordingly calculated, each step carrying his constitution expertly, until he reached the small sealed archway, an exit that he pried open effortlessly and slipped out of, into the frosty streets, his viridian irises narrowed to compensate for the unexpected brightness of the outside world. Such a refreshing moment, the wind biting as his cheeks and his unkempt graying hair blowing freely with every gust. Despite his obligation to continue along his way urgently, the Ripper found it difficult to move, frozen within the intoxicating canvas of potential freedom. Pulled away from the reverie, he went on his way, scaling the thick cobbled walls and out into the streets.
The Bree-town Ripper was free.
