“Some moments in your life, you need the skills in which you can tell a person’s character. Know when to trust them or to run screaming from the room. Let me enlighten you,” the interrogator passed by the candle casting long dark shadows on empty walls.

“I want you to think of a loyal guard dog or any working dog. They have this natural skill and know when something is dangerous if you watch them. I watched this one farmer’s dog once; it would guard the sheep all day and soak up the sun, but it was always nervous of the woods. One day, the dog knew that a wolf had come into the field long before the farmer ever had a chance to react.” He paused and rested his back against the wall, “Let me tell you more, so you can grasp my point.”

The cloaked interrogator began walking again. Shadows danced all around him. “I once saw this one big, mean and nasty-looking guard dog. Let me tell you! You would never want this big brute of a dog to bite you. As soon as he saw me. Oh Boy. His hair stood up on end. His owner, this clueless underpaid guard, had no idea he would die. I walked right up to him and tricked him with a simple wardrobe change. The dog’s instinct gave it an edge as if the dog were there when I got it off the body of the replacement guard.”

The interrogator bent over the back of the chair and whispered, “Good for the dog, bad for the owner. Guess which one walked away from the encounter.” The interrogator laughed, “one of them walked away, one of them ended up in a chair just like this,” and a smile spread across his face.

It would be a strange conversation if someone were watching from the outside. An elf was on a chair in the centre of a stone, windowless room. A cross from him was a well-dressed figure that walked around him in circles. If not for the odd conversation, the room could remind anyone of an Inn’s cellar for keeping casts of ale and salted meats. After all, the elf could be at an Inn? In the basement, unknown adventurers could be having drinks above; they were unaware he was trapped here.

The hooded rogue walked in circles and talked to himself more than the elf. He did not expect nor anticipate any answer to his hypothetical questions. His voice sounded almost cheerful, while the elf on the chair looked drained of all energy. He stopped behind the chair, and with a quick snap, a thundering fist slammed into the kidney of the helpless elf.

“I know what you are thinking; what happened to the dog? I am not a monster; the dog was following its instinct and wanted to save his owner, but that guard, full of himself, did not even notice I was wearing his friend’s uniform,” the interrogator laughed. He stopped in place after circling the elf again. A left fist cracked the listener across his eye socket with another swift strike. “I, for one, struggle with life each day. You might laugh and scoff, asking yourself, “how does this handsome and dashing figure struggle?”

At the end of his question, another fist smashed into the listener’s helpless face.

“Good question, dear sir. I do not look or play the part of a being who struggles, which is the point. The world. Let me explain that we live in a world created for more.” The trapped elf gurgled a gob of blood. The blood began to drip lazily down his face and slowly dripped on the floor as if it were an icicle melting in a spring thaw. Hours have passed without a single question asked of the elf, just fist after fist struck the elf’s weak points—the elf’s once clean and noble clothes stained with his blood and tears.

The elf finally spat out a question, “Why?”

The cloaked figure paused before he lashed out with his fist and connected to the elf’s knee cap. He took a step back and raised a hand under his hood. “Why? That is a hard question. Why does the sun rise? Why do we hurt each other?” He took a deep breath. “My struggles are my own, much like your soul belongs to you until the end. Well, unless you are simple enough to share it with another. Let me tell you of the burden I carry. I am chaining you down. No, no. The chains are choices. Not unlike yourself by the choices, you have made, or I have made.”

A smile crested onto the integrator’s face, “Well, plus the chains I put you in.” He laughed as he grabbed a pair of pliers.

The elf took a moment while his interrogator ranted to regain a fraction of his wits. The elf felt proud that he was still in one piece, despite the feeling of a few broken ribs. The elf took a desperate breath, feeling his muscles burn and crying out for help, but the elf told himself that the pain meant he was still alive. With that desperate breath, he begged, “I have a family.”

Ignoring the plea, the pliers went to work.

“I was not born in this land, but I was shaped by it looking back.” Blood dripped down the elf’s face. The interrogator slapped the elf across the face.

A whisper. “Please.”

“I am sharing a small piece of myself with you, focus. Before I planted my roots here, I travelled the world, travelled my path. I cut ties to everything and everyone and lived my dreams, but I still ended up with you. You might say that all paths lead to trouble; however, your case is a painful death.” With that, he began to laugh again at the elf’s beaten face.

The interrogator took a moment to breathe the smell of copper deeply. Then unhooked a waterskin from his belt, carefully opened the elf’s mouth, and slowly poured water into his mouth. It almost felt motherly, as if looking after a sick child. The bound elf drank each drop as if it were his last taste of freedom, and time seemed to slow down to a crawl. The interrogator stopped after the waterskin was drained and gave the elf a hollow smile.

He waited. They waited for what must have felt like a lifetime. The mood in the room shifted. A fist struck out and broke a bone. Crack! The relentless fist found its mark upon the poor soul’s cheekbone. The bone gives way to the pressure of the hardened knuckles. Then more cracking sound rings out into the peaceful night.

Spitting blood, he gave in to the pain. He had nothing left.

The elf had that last feeling of safety and hope ripped away, and his drive to hold on cracked, shattered into a thousand pieces. He began to speak slowly. “There is a legend about a small town to the north where the old gods still take a breath and touch our world.”

The overwhelmed elf croaked out as the hooded figure pressed the silver dagger into the soft skin of the elf’s neck, and with a slight nod, the interrogator promoted his captive to continue. “That is where you will find the chamber, the book and the old warrior.” Crimson tears began to sprinkle the daggers finely kept edge, “Please, I don’t want to die,” he mourned, “that is all I know about the spell to awaken him.”

With that, the hooded figure freed the old elf. Untied the elf from the blood-stained wooden chair. The elf collapsed to the floor, “Thank you,” the elf whispered. The elf tried to regain footing but was too weak from the ordeal. The feeble elf lay crumpled on the floor like an unwanted piece of trash.

“The path always leads to impulsive choices, just like my youth. Oh, how the wheels of fate turn. We are just bumps that the road shapes as we travel. I enjoy a good old reflection on one’s past.”

The hooded man watched the poor elf struggle to make for the door. A grin began to spread like wildfire upon his shadowed lips. A flash of silver darted in the single torch’s light. A soft thud and the elf fell into the door. “Your soul is now free from its mortal body,” he chuckled. He walked over, pulled out the blade, and wiped it clean on the poor dead creature as carefully as one might hold a newborn babe. Then with remarkable speed from years of practice, the rogue vanished into the shadows and began his quest north.