Troubles and Trials

Suddenly exploding into action, the Amaras traveler made a frantic leap after the fleeing figure of the person the doorway, growling as he went and watched the figure disappear outside into the darkness. Crashing through the already crashed inn took some dodging of broken furniture and a few growls of disgust as it snapped and was kicked away, but he made it across.
“YOU! STOP!” He shouted, hoping the unknown person would heed. As he dashed out into the wet street, drawing his sword, Gildor glared down the road at the flying, slender figure, fast disappearing into the night to be lost. For a split second the Amaras thought about pursuing, but gave it up. He was tired, and older, and thus probably slower, and furthermore he wasn’t looking to chase everyone who ran or looked suspicious.
As he pulled his hood back over his head, glaring into the rain and distance where the stranger had disappeared, listening the rain beat down on him. The scent of the cold outside hit the elf-man again, and he sighed, shoulder sagging a little.
“What in Creation…was that?” He asked no one in particular. No one answered, for obvious reasons.
He stood in the rain, gazing after the lost stranger, until at length he turned back inside from the gray, soaked street and into the inn. As he entered again, ducking under the high beam of the door, the Amaras pulled back his hood again, revealing once more his relatively dry features.
“I wonder who that was?” He muttered aloud, within range of the innkeeper, but not expecting much of an answer. As a veteran warrior, he knew how to use his mind, and was already at work. Gildor was no fool. If it had been an assassin, she/he/it had played poorly, so he doubted that. A spy? Perhaps. Enemies of the innkeeper? He looked in the man’s direction.
“Make any sense to you, good innkeeper?” He queried.


Ewan had long since given up the idea of struggling in his chains. That was pointless. Life in general seemed pointless when one had been chained underneath a tower for what felt like thousands of years. The idea of time seemed pointless and non-existent now, as though time itself just WAS, rather than being something articulate. If it existed at all.
The blackness only deepened and continued to mock him. Occasionally a light or two, just barely bright enough to be noticed, would flicker at the edge of his vision, but he knew far better now. It was merely his eyes playing tricks on him. Would he go blind at last, chained to the pitch darkness itself for so long?
The chains rattled a little as he flinched slightly, drawing his legs up and hugging them to himself. It was also very cold in the dungeons, but that was of course the least of his problems.
How in Creation had he gotten into such a mess as he was in? At what point did he go wrong? These questions tormented him. At first, years ago, he had been a simple ranger’s son, living on the land by hunting, trapping, and traveling the forested mountains around his homeland, occasionally visiting the cities. By nature, rangers were nomads and wanderers of the wilds, having family clans that were experts at living in the wild for years on end without having to contact civilization. It was a hard, but good life.
Then, old enough to shoot a bow and use an long sword, he had gone traveling on his own, as young men do once they grow old enough. Perhaps it was not that, but rather the direction in which he went that proved the first wrong step.
He found the very tower he was now trapped in, and had apparently been welcomed by them…then. The tower was always looking for strong young men to join the ranks of the ‘guards,’ the sentries and patrols who constantly patrolled it’s surrounding land. Men, trolls, and furies were all soldiers of the tower, and he, being excellent with sword and bow, was gladly accepted. Naturally like any enterprising young man looking for gold, power, and respect in the ranks, he had joined willingly.
For a few years he had patrolled and worked for the tower, a ‘black ranger,’ as civilized folk called them, rangers who served certain unsavory masters. He had patrolled the edges of the tower’s land, arrested and imprisoned trespassers, and on some occasions, ambushed and killing trespassers who were too dangerous…or to close.
His ‘master,’ that is, the person who ruled the tower with an iron fist, was a man that Ewan had really only seen a few times, and spoken with only once or twice. Though always surrounded by a couple of highly trained fury guards, the ‘master,’ who occasionally inspected the barracks and troops, was a small, older man who walked with a cane and stooped with a hunch, an invalid. How he was supposed to be so powerful, Ewan had no idea. Or rich. Or respected. But whatever the case, he paid well, so Ewan had asked no questions about the unusual ‘master,’ who spoke very little and walked even less.
And then, randomly, from out of nowhere, Ewan had been snatched out of his bunk at early dawn in the barracks, beckoned by a few of the higher level guards…and was immediately knocked out when something nailed him in the back of the head from behind as he had stepped out of his barracks that morning.
And that was the last time he remembered seeing some natural light in his life.
When he awoke, he was there. In chains. In the dark, watching his captors clang shut the door behind him with groggy vision. And that was eras ago.

When he heard the keys rattle and the door open, Ewan thought it was just a dream again and nearly dozed off, thinking the noise was not real. Until he heard footsteps and a rough, gloved hand reached down out of the open doorway and dragged him up.
“ACH!” He barked painfully, his body hurting to be so suddenly moved and jerked after months of barely moving at all. He looked up with a snarl into the face of the heavily armored jail ward.
The large, dirty, heavyset man with the dark beard glared at him in the torchlight, as someone behind him, a minion no doubt, held the torch close.
The jail guard grunted. “Yep, this is him. Take him up.”
The minion with the torch, a tiny, slender man as opposed to his large, fat friend, hurriedly rushed into the cell with the key and unlocked Ewan’s arms and legs. Ewan, still so weak after months of imprisonment, could only be helplessly held in the jailer’s grip. He struggled feebly, but it was worthless.
“The master has use for you finally.” The jailer muttered, and half dragged, half pushed Ewan’s limp form out into the corridor. The door on his cell clanged shut, and the torchlight disappeared up the low hall. To the master’s chamber they went.