[hider=Character Summary]
[b]Location:[/b] Elibstan Citadel Dungeon.
[b]Health:[/b] Weak, but able.
[b]Inventory:[/b]
Sabre
[/hider]

The dungeon's meagre garrison of failed sellswords, thugs and retired soldiers lay in mangled heaps about the barracks. Mundhir, despite the throbbing pain threatening to implode his skull, was lucid enough to feel great shame. The guards of the dungeon may not have been the most honourable of knights, or the most fabled of warriors, but they were his kinsmen - his father's servants. His words of restraint had fallen on deaf ears, and when threatened with violence, the group had responded with total destruction. 

The Prince recoiled as the rasping Lizard approached him from his blindside, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to plunge his sabre into the creature's face. 

 "Here, take these skins from Rin and eat its contents. If won't get rid of the blue, but it will help," it said as it dipped its finger into a mossy concoction of herbs. 

"Away from me, Lizard," sneered Mundhir, stepping away. "I've enough of alchemy for a life time." 

The group were busy searching the evidence and plunder boxes for their equipment, and the Prince felt his pride welt a little to realise that selling a prisoner's belongings was obviously widespread amongst the dungeon's guards. Mundhir considered it an ill business to steal from anyone, especially before they had received their final judgement. Once he was out of his dilema, he would have [i]words[/i] with his father concerning the lapse of Eblistani morals within the Citadel's soldiery. 

A young man with an eye patch had mentioned the possibility of fleeing into ruins; another of the group, one of nature's servants, had spoken of the retiring to Uchfos Forest. Mundhir stared at the little she-creature for more moments than was proper, and felt soothed and unnerved by her presence in equal nature. It was not befitting of men to keep the company of the forest folk - they were a strange peoples, always embroiling in misdeeds and moral heresy. Some would call them beautiful and innocent. He would call them creatures that should have remained beyond the Spine. 

The doors leading to the torture chambers burst open suddenly, as the group were reacquainting themselves with their stolen gear, in rushed a dozen Eblistani guardsmen. Mundhir was determined to save them, to reason with them. They would know his face, they would lower their weapons. The guards had surrounded the nightmare-beast of the underworld, as it cradled the forest wench, and were preparing to put an end to its ungodly existence. The Prince concurred with their actions, though did not convey as much, and stood back. 

Before his kinsmen could destroy the monster, they collapsed with bleeding ears and noses. Mundhir knew right away that the chitin plated being possessed more than just physical horrors - it was slaughtering them within the confines of their own mind. A most dishonourable form of combat, and one the Prince would not sanction. Before he could bring his sabre onto the head of the monster, it stopped its assault, and his kinsmen stopped riling in agony. He paused his attack, and turned. No matter what circumstances had befallen him, he was well past the point of preparing to offer his assistance to a bunch of murderers. 

[b]"Find your own way out, you savages," he uttered. [/b]

With a slight stumble in his step, he made his way into the torture chambers. [b]A long corridor met his eyes, and it was lined with the bright fire of a dozen torches. Every ten feet down the walkway was a simple wooden door on the left and the right; these contained the interrogation rooms. [/b]Even a wise and kind Caliph such as his father needed more than kind ways to grasp the truth of a situation, and what lay in those nightmarish rooms of torment was testament of this fact. 

He walked onwards, noting that the others had started to take after him. It was unlikely they'd let him escape. If he could just reach the passage-way at the end of the hall, then he could take his leave and shut them in. 

[b]One of the doors opened abruptly, and a tall man clad in heavy mail stepped into the corridor. Slowly, he turned to face the Prince, calmly drawing his enchanted sabre as he did so. Mundhir knew the man as a World Breaker - the elite warriors of Eblistan. He had led those troops many times when his father had given battle to Nillanor on the borderlands. They often wore magically enhanced armour, and used weapons forged from the finest steel the Citadel could afford. With such treasures, they were a deadly force feared all over Eulona. [/b]

"Stand down, brother," said Mundhir. "It is I, your prince." 

"I know who you are, little whelp," retorted a voice of pure iron. 

"Then stand down," Mundhir barked with growing impatience, "or I'll have you lashed a dozen ti-" 

"I don't heed the words of dead men, nor do I heed the words of my sworn enemies!" 

The World Breaker thundered down the corridor; his heavy plated boots crashing into stone as they pumped with unnatural speed. The Prince, as ill as he was, stood little chance. Oddly, he thought how foolish he'd been to take up the robes of nudity in favour of pillaging armour from his dead kinsmen. The move had seemed decent and moral at the time, but now he felt hopelessly stupid. 

The World Breaker's sabre came down, and Mundhir brought his up to meet it with a fraction of his renowned speed. There was a large crash, as his enemy's superior weapon shattered the dulled steel carried by the dungeon's guards. The air shimmered with two dozen fragments of metal, but before they had hit the ground, the Prince had removed himself from the World Breaker's follow-up swing. 

"Run little Prince, run home to your friends," the hulking titan chuckled through a grated visor. "It will take more than an oversized cow and an Elf with a few tricks to protect you from me." 

The Prince, ever believing in the honour of fighting to the death, threw down his lifelong beliefs and ran back towards the barracks. His legs felt heavy with the after effects of Ice Venom, but it was enough to outrun his would-be murderer. 

"Steel yourselves!" he yelled, falling through the door into a clumsy heap. He quickly crawled towards the nearest chest and reached for a pair of britches. If he was going to die today at the hands of a traitor, he was going to die at least half dressed!