It was a cool night; pleasant to those on the surface. But down underneath the city's castle, in the dark and damp dungeons, it offered nothing but chill. A chill was creeped through a man's skin and got into his bones. The kind of cold that no amount of shivering and huddling could conquer. After two years, the poor man who found himself prisoner there had stopped trying. 

He had once been a brave and noble knight. He had been a man with a happiness, love, friends, and family. Now he was nothing. He was barely more than the rats that scurried through the bars of his cell. As he propped himself up in the corner, the cold stone pressing against his flesh, the man could do nothing but think. Down here, his thoughts were all he had left. He thought about how he would escape, although his plans never worked. He though about revenge quite often; revisiting and replaying the scene inside his head in which Dragonmaw would die in a way only an evil man could deserve. He thought about his wife, and what she would be doing right now if she were still alive. He thought about his child, who hadn't even seen the light of day before having it's life ripped away. He remembered how Evelyn had thought so carefully about names: Madison if it was a girl, Andrew if it was a boy. But now he had stop, because he could feel tears forming in his eyes. 

The man shifted onto the ground, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. After two years, he had yet to do so. The stone floor was hard and wet, caked with mud and dead insects. His armor and clothing had been stolen from him, leaving him nothing but his bare, raw skin to lay on. Every in of his dark colored flesh was covered in bruises or cuts. His body was battered and weak. He tried to keep his weight on by excising in what little space he had, but his mass had dwindled. His hair, once silky and well groomed, now matted itself in bloody knots, dirty with mud. The knight was a ghost of his former self. 

He gingerly laid down on his side, using his arm as a pillow, and stared up the stairs at the dungeon door. Whenever it opened, it usually meant trouble for him. Sometimes it also meant moldy bread for dinner, but most of the time it meant trouble.