Jonathan was awoken from his blood-loss induced slumber by a pair of arguing voices. Making certain to keep completely still, the fighter listened with uncharacteristic care in hopes that he'd find out at least one reason as to why he was now on a course bedspread with cold metal shackles around his wrists. The first voice was a deep, growling drawl that was insisting that the latter voice, a smooth and controlled female, carefully tried to explain about aftercare of prisoners. They had evidently been at the same point in the argument for several minutes, noted by the constant raising of the deeper voice as the man seemed to be struggling to contain his temper. After yet another round of the same few words being exchanged, the man seemed to have enough of the healer's explanations. The deeper voice, a guard by the sound of his chainmail clinking as heavy footfalls paced back and forth, growled out an order to follow as his patience snapped. The door creaked open, and after another complaint about the irresponsibility of leaving a patient, lighter footfalls and the smooth voice retreated out of the room. Moments later, another angry snort of derision came from the deep-voiced male and the door slammed shut. Jonathan quietly sat up, gripping the chains around his wrist close to prevent the telltale clank of [i]metal[/i] on metal. After a quick scan of the room to confirm that he was alone(Revealing a room with a row of beds, all of them empty save for his), he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down to check his own status. 

The alcoholic fighter bit back a curse as he realized that sometime during his half-conscious stumbling and eventual collapse he'd been stripped. That was bad. He had no armor, no weapons, no tricks, and his worn undergarments were doing nothing to keep out the chill of the stone room from soaking into his bones. He'd been taken prisoner without knowing who or what had nearly killed him outright and that only spoke badly of his chances. Ylisse wasn't Plegia, or Naga-forbid, Regna Ferox, but such prisoners had a funny way of being executed no matter what country they were captured by. On the bright side, the healer had sealed the dangerously large wound that removed most of Jonathan's skin on his left leg. Dying by blood loss would have been a bitter way to go out.

Dismissing thoughts of his imminent demise, Jonathan stood up quickly and darted forward across the well-lit room, making his way past the leftover beds to a door on the opposite side of the room from where the healer and guardsman had left. He pressed against the doorframe, unsure of what his next move should be.