Wisdom had slipped away from the crew the only time a loud, fumbling, bizarre looking elf starved for a fight could. In the midst of utter chaos. The city was loud with the drone of bells, people, guards, and the crowd of prisoners easily kept eyes toward them. The moment the lines of a group were broken, Wisdom had stomped off to slash at a few guards and find a sword with a glimmer of relation to the one Bug-man had ruined with spit. Wisdom's hand still looked red and bloodied in the spots the acid had tasted.

There were no shops. Not with anything worth looking at. Most wouldn't patron him when they glanced his prowling by, the crushing grip on the hilt of the Oenann sword, metal skinned and wrecked with pock marks, the crazed eyes against the harsh head. This lead to a nice number of guards to slash at. But it wasn't long before he had to ditch the citadel like the rest.

By the time he caught up, the Prince's men had found him and hid him away - when they realized Wisdom's role in the scene, he ended up in one of the nice prisons that apparently all the others got - but the Prince - as well. The elf had spat in a young recruit's face and wrestled with the others, and even now held a grudge. The prison was nice, but the elf didn't appreciate being stuck. Particularly when the only entertainment was books.

Still, when the Prince released them - physically and legally - and made an optional offer, it held some promise.
"My relatives hate you, Number 7. You've killed people they know, hurt the whole elven bloodline, and hurt their pride. I'm surprised my...brothers and sisters..have put up with you for so long."
Wisdom's lips pressed deep creases up the hollow face, "It'd be an honor to help you. No way I could pass the chance to say I served the glorious Prince Mundhir of Eblistan. Just promise me a fine sword - preferably elven - and some good fights."