(Content Tags: Heights, tiny male)
The tiny hero had paced until his legs had begun burning. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what happened. Nothing made sense. Memory was foggy but he felt certain that things around him, much less people were far bigger than he was. Escape. That’s what he needed to focus on.
Moving to the edge of the golden cage, he peered over the edge of his confinement. Darkness spread beneath him, and the shred of light from beneath the doorway only illuminated just how far of a fatal drop that was beneath him. Even if he could squeeze between the bars of his prison, the fall would be too much for him. Moving to another side, he searched for anything to get his bearings, to plan, anything at all.
The outlines of many pieces of furniture were visible from what little he could see: A couch, a footstool, a few round tables, and the stand that holds his prison. The furniture alone made things look strange for a dungeon. It looked, homely actually. Even if he could not appreciate the comfort they were promising from so far away.
It was a long way down, but he needed to find a way out.
He weighed his options. Even if he could squeeze through the bars, the leap from here would surely kill him, there was no doubt of that. Waiting until his captors returned and perhaps staging some sort of daring escape seemed plausible if it weren’t for the fact that he doubted he could run fast enough to get to any sort of safety. Worse, he risked getting accidentally crushed by the guards in the process, as he is sure they may not be known for their gentle hand with captives. Was there anything he could use to aid him?
The inside of the cage was sparse. It looked like it had been used before. Signs around there had been a previous inhabitant from the crumpled papers, a food dish for what looked like seeds, and a large water bottle mostly filled but with water that looked far more green to his liking.
Wait! He thought, the water bottle! He scurried over to where it hung. It was held upside-down on a holder that looked worse for wear. He figured he could detach it from the cage. Inside the water, he figured, would have a better shot at absorbing the impact with the floor. It didn’t look to be made of glass, so shattering would not be an issue. The real issue, he felt the tension grow in his gut, was how he was going to get into the bottle without spilling all the water out before he could get in and away from the cage.
He paced the cage again, the slight swing still offputting. Looking down at his feet, his eyes fell on the shreds of paper, some parts soiled, precious little other space otherwise. If this lack of attention to basic care of whatever was in here last was any sign of things to come, he had to do this for his shot at freedom.
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