"Halt!" Cries one of the guards. "Who goes there?"
"Friend." You reply.
"Advance and be recognised." The guard instructs you. You step out of the shadows to greet them. "What is your business?"
"The Cardinal of Winchester has instructed me to deliver Last Rites to the prisoner." You tell them in Middle English, which simply had a slight difference in pronounciation and word order compared to modern English.
"I do not remember anything about heretics receiving Last Rites." The other guard comments.
"I have his instuctions here." You say and produce the parchment. The guard takes it from you and they both look at it. You hear them muttering behind it; you remember that literacy was not a qualification for a medieval soldier and smirk with delight before the guards look up from the parchment as you drop your amused expression.
"Well, everything seems to be in order." One of the guards tells you as he returns the parchment to you. "Pass." You thank them and set off down the spiral staircase as they start to argue about bending the truth.
After a steady trek down the stairs you see a set of cells with only one guard patrolling the dungeon. It figures since if they all escaped then it would take them a while to reach a suitable escape route while fighting a rally of soldiers. You wait until he starts to turn round and then fire the stun gun, knocking him unconscious with barely a sound. Going to give him the once over you find that he does not have the keys. A lowly man is sitting in the corner of the dungeon fast asleep; his hand barely clutches the bottle of ale he must've been swigging and there, hanging from his waist-side, are the keys to the cells. You give him a nudge and he grunts, so you get a malicious idea of how to get him to cooperate. You take a sodium pentathol dart and jab him in the buttock. That gets him out of his chair.
"What are you doing?!?" He yells at you. You look him in the eye and ask him.
"Which of those keys is the one to the cell containing Joan of Arc?" You have a bit of trouble with the Middle English but he doesn't question it. He just takes the keys in his hand and fiddles around with them before he holds up one particular key.
"This one," He tells you, "As it has a little lump on the end like a fleur-de-lis." You quickly take it from him and point the stun gun at him.
"Thank you." You tell him. "Have a good night's sleep." You then knock him unconscious back into his chair, the bottle of ale is now dribbling onto the floor.
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