My memory of the time that followed is... spotty, to say the least. And what I do remember is both graphic and horrific, in ways that I would usually try not to dwell upon. I should warn you, dear reader, that should you continue on you may not like the things that you see. Indeed I beg of you, truly, to turn the page. I beg you to continue on into Chapter 8 and forget the things that I am about to tell you. The things that I have seen.

Go ahead. I'm waiting. ... ... ... Ya. Apparently, you are still reading these pages. These pages in Chapter 7 and not Chapter 8. I will go ahead and give you the benefit of the doubt. Easy mistake, after all. Go on now. ... And, you are still here. Well then. I guess I will just have to assume that you are here by your own free will, and not by some horrendous, life altering accident. Oh, well. I did try, after all. So be it. My very next memory is the memory of being a woman... forcibly... persuaded by a man. I do not recall how I traveled from the far woods outside of the city, all the way back into the cold confines of that room. I only know that, somehow, there were chains upon my feet and nails pinning my wrists firmly into the bedpost. You heard me. Not manacles, nails. And yes, they hurt. Now, do you have any further questions? Then let me continue. I felt his fingers upon my skin, and I felt it as his weight dropped onto my body. I felt it in the wrists, mostly. As, like I have said, there were some very uncomfortable bits of still pushed through my dangling arms, with every movement sending waves of agony from the bloody bolts down through the rest of my body. It was that, I think, that brought me back to lucidity. And likewise, the reason that I remember. I was a Witch, however. And even pinned helpless, I was not without some power. Before he could take from me a single second of his pleasure, I shifted, fast and brutal - twisting my shape from my diminutive, elfin features into the full, unerring shape of a man. Just as I had done during my escape, all while eluding my pursuers. It absolutely wrecked my forearms, the muscle bunching and swelling around the little bits of iron, but it was absolutely worth it for the look on his face. For the shock and fear and hate that I glimpsed in that single, echoing moment. Of course, his backhand stole what remained of my consciousness. And I have no remaining illusions as to how effective my struggles had actually been. The next thing that I remember where the maggots. They were held in front of me, swallowing my entire field of vision. The sight horrified me more, I think, than did the feel of the incision in my abdomen. The feel of them tearing their way into places they should not be able to touch, should not be able to invade, with crude, medieval instruments. In spite of myself, I felt my voice mumbling the words to my own curse. I chanted the words, as if by rote, even as I felt my own skin closing and entrapping the writhing, crawling things. Skill increased! Witchcraft +1 Skill increased! Toughness +1... But, I believe, the worst part still, was the following week when they managed to crawl their way out of me. There were days when I saw no one at all. Where I was left to my own devices, as before. Only this time I did not have warm sheets and I did not have a bedpan. Instead, I wore anklets of heavy steel. Instead, I wore earrings that were also bracelets. And, instead, I got to smell the souring notes of my own filth soaking deep into the mattress. It was the weekend, usually, when they came to me. Or at least that seems most likely the case. The pattern of starvation and isolation did cease so regularly, torture for one and sometimes two days, only for me to be left alone again for an eternity while the sun came and it went. Came and went. I believe that they were experimenting upon me. Seeing how much I could take. And, I believe, trying to break me utterly at the very same time. Ironically, I believe that I learned more about myself at that time than they did learn about me. Though it isn't the way in which I would have chosen to learn, if I had any other options. I learned that hunger and thirst did gradual damage to my HP. Leeching it away faster and faster until there was very little left. It wasn't hard to heal away, at first. A spell in the morning or a spell as the sun did set, and I limped along, clinging to life. But, as the week wore on, my life depleted faster and faster. In fact, I always seemed to know when the old man was coming. Yes, sometimes he did bring... assistance. Sometimes he just brought an audience. But in my mind it was always just him that I focused on. Arrol. My tormentor. The night before he arrived, I was never allowed to sleep. Every minute, indeed, with every cooldown, I would need to heal again. The nights wore on, until I was no longer able to gauge the time as my life depleted, faster and faster. All I could do was chant, over and over and over, "By the pact between thee and me return to us Eternity as your servants and your bonded Belial listen and remember by the pact between thee and me return to us Eternity as your servants and your bonded Belial listen and remember by the pact between thee and me return to us Eternity as your servants and your bonded Belial listen and remember..." Skill increased! Witchcraft +1 Skill increased! Toughness +1 Skill increased! Toughness +1 Skill increased! Toughness +1 I just repeated those words, again and again, praying that the blessed relief would kick in. That I would gain another few seconds of relief, before my vitality plunged once again into the red. Then, after an eternal nightmare that was the hours between night and morning, they would come. They would bring food and, more importantly, water which they would dribble upon my lips. Letting me taste the thin portions of broth and gruel and that life-giving liquid, before taking it once more away. And then he would come. He would walk in once again and continue upon his foul experimentations against my body. Eventually, after more days and nights than I can easily count, I gave in. I... gave him what he wanted. I was broken and battered and torn - the hideous elf that no one would stand up for. Fit only to be the cruel joke, subject to the whims of my human betters. I broke, I begged. I swore my allegiance and service and... pretty much anything else that they did ask of me. And slowly, uncertainly, my situation began to improve. The nails came out of my wrists. The food became more frequent. The bedpan, in fact, was even returned. And so I did play the loyal slave, I was the loyal slave, for weeks upon weeks upon months. And, finally, when I had given up hope that they would, they did return to me my straightrazor...