Live by the sword, die by the sword.

[-madmartigan.livejournal.com]

Flashing lights.

Running.

Panting.

It was now or never.

Over the fence, under the ditch. Bare feet hitting the ground, hard stone as black as night in this strange, dungeon-like city. The warden was yelling, the guards were after him, the strange magical lights were swirling and there was a dull honk that passed as some kind of alarm cry. He blinked, trying to fight off the last of the potion that they had forced him to take. Medicine, they called it. It blurred the mind and dulled feeling, it did not heal. Gave him quite a few wicked nightmares though, but he doubted it was merely the medicine that did that. This whole place, this city they called it, stank of evil. Rife with it. He suspected that it was Bavmorda's doing, but no one had heard of her name here. The last of her minions had sent him here to this odd dimension, away from his Sasha and his world. He had merely been happy for a few days, before it was taken from him like this. Only a few days of bliss. He had a family then, had a place. Madmartigan wasn't merely a rogue anymore, he was Home.

And now this. He was taken, wandering the streets, confused, and confined to this alleged house of healing. Asylum, they named it. It was no kind asylum. Crazy people walked the halls. Mad. Madder than he was, most of the time, though a few more weeks in there and it wouldn't just be a namesake.

And he had leapt at the chance to escape, he was good at escaping, he liked to think, though most of the time it took a helping hand, like old Willow. Some inmates had managed to create a ruckus and ran for it, and of course he ran along with them. He flew out of the mad place and ran pell-mell into the streets once more. It was here where he was caught the first time, anyway. Panting, he lay his back against a cool stone wall and slid into an alley, running his fingers through his sweaty, short hair. They had cut his long locks as soon as he had gotten in there, and he had put up quite fight and bitten a few arms in the process, but still, they had done it. He would have his revenge, he swore. They must be in league with those Bavmordite minions that had sent him there. To this horrible place.

Rough fingers clenched the sword that was stuck in his belt (or rather, a straightjacket strap). He had managed to get it from their keep, at least. A bit of luck in this unforgiving land.