I woke up with no idea who or where I was. I couldn't remember anything about my life or myself. I laid on a sleeping bag in a damp, dark room with no recollection of ever being here. My ankle was in a homemade splint and hurting an unimaginable amount. It smelled damp and earthy in there, as if I was underground. I could see nothing. I heard an occasional creak or a quiet snap of a board. I tried to speak, but no words formed, as if I had been put on mute. So I snapped my fingers, and judging by the sound, I was in a domed cave-like structure. I could taste the dryness of my sore throat. My hands felt rough and calloused as if I had been working hard in a workshop my entire life. A long sword lay nearby, I reached out to grab it. When my hand closed around the grip it felt as if it was made for me and me only. 

I dug around my memory, which was like trying to wade through mud. Nothing. Apart from two things. First: I'm an elf, and Second: My name is Fiona Silas. That's all I had. 

This is to who or whatever did this to me: I'm gonna find you, and I'm gonna burn you. Keep that in mind.

So anyway, locked in a damp room with a sword and a sleeping bag. Useful. I had a gut feeling that I'd been in this situation before. So I tried to sit up and immediately felt extremely nauseous, meaning I had to lay down again. Concussion maybe? Not good at all. I couldn't concentrate on one thought. My brain was crowded with questions like: Where am I?, Who am I?, Where am I from?, Is anyone looking for me?, What do I do next?. The last one was a good one. What am I supposed to do? It seemed as if I need to get out of here. 

I thought about what I can do now since I have a concussion, sprained ankle and no sense of direction. I finally decided to attempt getting up again. Trying my hardest to not pass out from effort, I pushed myself onto my elbows. Breathing heavily, I sat up and put my hands on the floor to support myself. I took a moment to rest and regain my strength, wincing from the pain in my ankle. I could see my clothes now. I was wearing a loose-fitting white pirate's top with a ruffle around each wrist; black knee-length culottes with a white rope belt and black combat boots.

The wall was made from mud, so I scooped out a little hand grip and pulled myself onto my left foot, because the right one was sprained. I looked at my situation now. My head was swimming and my foot throbbing, I was leaning on the sword, point stabbed into the floor as I used it as a walking stick. The sun was coming up outside, so the room was lightening a little. There was a small hole, about five centimetre diameter, in the roof in the middle of the room. I spotted a large plank of wood leaning against the far wall. Groaning, I half hopped, half shuffled towards it, snapped it to the right length to be a walking stick and used that instead of the sword. 

Now what? I looked about again in the room in a new frame of mind, my survival frame. I leaned over and scooped up the sleeping bag. I rolled it up into a tube, ripped the cuffs off of my shirt and tied the sleeping bag with my cuff-string so it stayed rolled up. I stabbed some arm straps into the first two layers of fabric so  could wear it like a back pack, then i slipped my sword out of sight in the center of the roll. 

Hobbling towards the large door-like structure, I thought of freedom from this room. I reached the door and studied the hinges that were on this side of the door. They looked rusted over and about to snap, the screws already falling out. so i pulled on the screws until they fell out, and, when the door gave way, I pulled it down only to find ....