Breaching the Rim

The iron basin served well through the dark, but a warrior does not rot inside a garrison. A dried cedar twig lay slanted over the cast-iron rim like a scaling ladder, its bark rough and peeling under my grip. I stepped onto the first knot, planting both boots into the fibrous grain. The wood groaned under my weight, but held. Reaching the iron lip, I found a steel bottle opener wedged flat across the gap, teeth biting into the timber table. I braced my boots against the iron edge and heaved with both hands until the pry-tool tilted, clearing a descent ramp down to the table surface. The way out is won.