He stirred in his sleep, the musty smell of damp stone and straw filling his nostrils. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and he looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was in a dimly lit room, the walls made of rough-hewn stone, and the only light came from a small barred window high up on the wall. His head ached, and he couldn't remember how he ended up there.
As he sat up, he noticed a figure sitting on a stool in the corner of the cell, strumming in a lute and singing in a mournful voice.
"Water …" the man croaked, his throat dry from disuse.
"So you can talk?" acclaimed the figure, as he continued to strum his lute.
"You should recognize this tune, a song of lost love and heartbreak, fairly common in your parts of the land"
The shadow figure approached the man, the muted light revealing his face. It was a twisted mess of scars and pockmarks, as if it was the legacy of a lifetime spent outside. His nose was bent, probably broken so many times that it had healed at an odd angle, giving him a rakish, roguish appearance. His eyes were small and close-set, and one was slightly lazy, giving him a sly, lopsided look.
"Although a man like you, would much prefer the rhymes and cries of war, eh?" The figure came closer to the man, as he continued playing.
"I just want some water" gasped the man, being ages since he had tasted some form of hydration.
"Oh i dont think that would be possible" the stranger grinned, revealing the gap between his two front teeth that gave his voice a distinctive whistle. His beard was patchy and unkempt, with clumps of wiry gray and hair sprouting from his chin and cheeks. His hair was long, thin and greasy.
"You see" the long haired man stopped playing the lute,
"Water is a rare commodity in this lands".
The figure came closer and reached his hand out to the man.
The man raised his hand, even though it was devoid of energy a strange feeling allowed him to grab the stranger's fist.
"Come with me, we must fixate your thirst first" he helped him up, then led him to the door in the corner of the room.
The door opened into a hallway, which was a winding tunnel of darkness, its walls made of cold, damp stone that seemed to leech the heat from the air. The torches that lined the walls flickered and danced, casting eerie shadows on the rough-hewn stone. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, and every step echoed through the empty hall like a death knell.
As they made their way deeper into the hallway, the darkness seemed to thicken, as if the very air was conspiring to smother him. The torches grew further apart, leaving long stretches of darkness between their flickering light. And yet, at the end of the hall, there was a faint glow, a pinprick of light that seemed to beckon him forward.
The floor beneath his feet was slick and uneven, and he stumbled more than once, catching himself on the rough walls and the stranger's shoulder to keep from falling. His breathing grew labored, as if the darkness itself was weighing down on his chest.
But still, he pressed on, drawn by the distant light. And as he drew closer, he could make out the shape of a doorway, the light streaming out like a beacon in the blackness.
The hallway ended abruptly, as if the stone had simply given way to the shifting sands beyond. The air was dry and hot, the heat seeming to press down on him like a physical weight. The once-cold stone walls had given way to a horizon of endless dunes, rolling away into the distance like waves frozen in time.
"Beautiful, isnt it? Acclaimed the stranger
"Water!" the man groaned, aching from the frenzying thirst.
"Now, now. The thirst, is just temporary." he grinned
"Lets begin with introductions first. I am Garenthor, the village elder," he said, his voice cold and measured. "And you are the newest addition to our humble abode."
The man swallowed hard, sensing that there was something not quite right about this man. "You are a clever man, I can see that," Garenthor continued, his eyes piercing into the man's soul. "But you have made a grave mistake, one that many consider blasphemous."
The man tried to speak, but his dried throat made him choke.
"I do not care for your protests," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "You have been exiled, and into our lands. Its a sentence that you will have to serve with your life."
The man could feel the chill of fear spreading through his body, like a cold hand gripping his heart.
"And yet, I am a fair man," Garenthor said, his voice softening slightly.
"You see, we share a common cause, and I might also share your sympathies aswell" the very common grin ran across the face of Garenthor.
"You see throughout the ages, when a kingslayer is caught, his fate is not a pleasant one. Such a man has committed the greatest crime imaginable, for he has not only broken the laws of gods and men, but has shattered the very fabric of the kingdom itself. And so, he must be punished, not with a quick death, but with a slow and agonizing exile. For there is no greater punishment than to be cut off from one's homeland, to wander the earth as a rootless outcast, forever marked by his heinous crime. The exile begins with a long and arduous journey, as the kingslayer is taken far from the kingdom he once called home. He is stripped of all his possessions, save for the clothes on his back, and given only the barest of provisions to survive. Then, he is set upon the road, with no destination in mind, no clear path to follow. He must wander the land, seeking shelter where he can find it, begging for food and water from strangers who look upon him with suspicion and fear."
The man gasped "I am no Kingslayer" his thirst slowly dissipating
"Well that dosent matter, because in here you are one of us" Gerenthor's teeth shined due to the desert sun.