[hider=Character Summary]Location: Elibstan Citadel Dungeon
Health: Bruised and cut (clubs and whips), hungry, thirsty, restrained. 
Inventory: Ragged trousers, shiv, iron shackles (1 foot length).[/hider]

It was his sixth day in the prison, and he was the last one. All his comrades were gone, dragged to the interrogation room one by one. They never came back. Kareth cursed the day he ever met Krenshaw. It was that bastard's idea to become bandits, and his idea to go after the treasury shipment. He was shit at finding jobs, he was a shit commander and a shit leader. He should have left the Raiders months ago.

Kareth sighed and released his anger. It did not do well to besmirch the names of the dead. He remembered the words his adoptive father taught him: “All men are equal in death: Learn what you can from their choices, then move on.” Krenshaw was killed almost a fortnight ago during his arrest, and Kareth learned of his fate from Jekel and the rest. Jekel disappeared into the torture chamber four days ago. He was the only one Kareth really liked in the Touchstone Raiders.

He had spent his entire stay in the dungeons watching and waiting for an opportunity. The warden, a grizzled old man, had him beaten and whipped simply because he didn't like the way Kareth looked. Kareth's lips curled slightly at the memory. The warden had good instincts to try to break him before he tried something, but it wasn't nearly enough to dissuade him from an attempt. Perhaps the warden found the effort pointless, knowing Kareth's ultimate fate. They took his shirt then too.

Sure enough, his silent vigil was rewarded. During the shift-change, a half-elf girl picked the lock to the prison. He watched as she slinked back to her seat, nonchalantly. Smart girl, letting others go first. He reached into his breeches and pulled out the small bone shiv he had hidden there. He didn't know the details of where it came from, but Jekel had given it to him the day he was taken away. It was the worst possible weapon he ever held, but it [i]was[/i] a weapon. Stab a man in the right spot, the neck for example, and it would kill.

An elf stood and asked for help with his restraints. Kareth recognized him as the one plagued by night terrors and that magical book. He didn't need to know details to realize that he was trouble, but he remembered another saying of his father's: “The enemy of my enemy is a problem for later. For now they might be useful.” He approached the elf, his manacles clinking. The moment was soon, and he wanted as many allies as he could muster. He used his shiv to saw away at the hempen bindings, then returned to his seat; though he seemed calm in all this, he was coiled like a cat or a spring. 

The moment came disjointedly and without the action he expected. The elf opened the door and blasted the first guard with a spell of considerable power. A minotaur burst through a cell wall, vowing to help. Some... beast tore through the iron door to a solitary confinement cell and began to tear open the remaining cells. Kareth was on his feet now, somewhat surprised by diversity of prisoners thinking along the same lines as he. Freedom must truly be one of the archetypical concepts of the world. A young man seized the blades and keys off the slain guard, fought off another and began opening the cells the beast hadn't yet pried open. Kareth quickly approached him and got his shackles released. He decided to keep the shackles for the moment. They could be used either as a makeshift flail or as a garrote, both better than just his shiv. He decided to stick close to the minotaur and the beast. Their muscle would be invaluable in the tight confines of the prison corridors: the prison guards could easily block up the corridors with bodies, and great strength would be needed to push through them... or to create an alternate exit.