Kiera woke and stared at the dark, squallid surroundings, furrowing her brow as she thought about how fate had made her end up here. Here. The Imperial dungeon; or, as she preferred to think of it, the Imperial dung heap. Rumours abounded about this place. It was supposedly full of stinking little goblin holes, rats and all kinds of other nasties that really shouldn't have had any bussiness near the Imperial city.

And here she was? For what? Fate? No. It had nothing to do with fate, or any celestial intervention on the part of the nine. The reason was a simple one. One act of defiance, and her mother had sent her straight into this squallid heap as punishment. To learn how to behave. If she thought this would make things better, she was sorely mistaken.

Standing up, she stretched her scrawny legs to try and work some of the muscles she hardly used. Growing up in the manor had more or less taught her that everything would eventually be brought to her if she sat there and screamed long enough, but once in a while it was good to actually stand. Doing so, she scratched at the prisoners rags she wore, and narrowed her eyes further. How could her mother possibly think an act so degrading would teach her some manners?

She could remember the exact moment she'd decided to do it, and she pondered it as she traced the iron manacles that dangled down in a threatening and yet somewhat physics-engine related way, almost as if they had been placed by the Nine for the chance to move them and, maybe, throw the odd skeletal remains at them to hear a nice clink. The moment had been when she met Borrin, who was now probably shipped off somewhere on her families instruction; maybe Morrowind, or even Black Marsh if they were feeling particularly vindictive and cruel. The moment she'd decided on her action was the moment her mother, in a rather harsh tongue, had informed her that under no circumstance would she ever see him again.

That night, she had decided to use her skills wisely. She'd managed to get past Gorn the guard without being seen, but that was easy. He practically soaked himself in mead, and it was always easy to tell when he was coming down the corridor due to the orchestral cacophony of his synchronised burps and farts, which made him sound like an Orc equivilent of a wind organ. Once there, she'd climbed down the vines to the stables, and out she went into town. It was strange to see the common areas, especially at night. They seemed so...squallid. Still, she'd quickly found what she was looking for, and then...

There was a call from across the hallway, and she walked to her bars to see what was going on. She was only due here for three days (after a soft bribe from her mother to the jailers), but the two other prisoners were lifers. Or deathers. Really it was the same thing. The foul-mouthed one across from her was calling out racist taunts at the new inmate, who didn't seem to say much. Kiera wrinkled her nose and turned back to her thoughts.

"Kiera! What! What have YOU....DONE?" her mother said, having turned pale rapidly, and quickly found herself in a spin that a whirling swordmaster would have found impressive. It was only when her mother regained consciousness, duely aided by two fawning servants as usual, that she'd been able to continue the conversation.
"Kiera! What! What have... you.... done.... oooh..."

It took three times to get beyond the first sentence, and by that time she'd lost intrest. Nineteen years old, she could do what she pleased, and if that happened to be colouring her hair a bright, flurescent green and cutting it in the style of some soldier, who was her mother to question it?

She heard guards approach, an old man talk in an overly theatrical style that made it all seem rather hammy, and the door to the cell next to hers open. She flipped out of her reverie, running a hand to flick up her bright green locks that her mother had found so offensive. Why couldn't she do that? Her mother probably didn't think it was proper for her to know any destructive magic either, but then a good fireball once in a while saved fetching a servant to light a fire. Wrinkling her nose, she leant against the cold brick to listen. Nothing but mumbled mutterings through the stone. Then came a clatter, and then nothing.

Someone was lucky, it seemed. By the sounds of it, the prisoner next to her had been rescued. Well, lucky him or her.

They'd probably done something henious. All she'd done was choose an unbecoming shade for her locks. Maybe there was something to fate and the divines after all. Maybe she'd meet Borrin again, and maybe her mother would appreciate love...

Then again, maybe, and probably not. But at least there were plenty of other stableboys to help her rebel against her parents...

And so it begins... I like it. I realy, really like this piece of fanfic, because it's so similar to my own views about character's storyline - throw them into a septic pit, head first, with just 1 pinch of hope for survival, and then let them claw their way out... literally. Did I already say that I like this ? Yes ? Well then, keep up the good work I like it !

Thanks. I just tapped it out whilst I was taking a break from Oblivion. Glad you liked it.

Ohhh yeah; it's good. You must continue......

Like that bit about the manacles, throw a bone, etc..... nice one. And the description of the jailor is peachy.

Keep on tapping, Foster. This has potential to be very good.