A short stalactite, aimed at the face of the shortest prisoner in the Royal Dungeon, released small drops of water from the ceiling at near-constant intervals that would prove to be quite chaotic if someone would actually sit down and record them. They would explode against her forehead, cleaning a small blotch of dust and machine oil, the shape resembling a gunshot wound. A breeze made the next dangling drop change course slightly, falling at an alarming rate towards the girl's eye... but finding a leather glove instead.

Harmony blinked herself awake. The look of the metallic protrusion used to hold the bench she lay on gave her an immediate splitting pain in the forehead. Soon after, her entire body joined in. Sore back, sore feet, burning sensation in the throat, itching eyes, and a powerful urge to cough her guts out, attacked in unison. She spent an agonizing few seconds looking for a blanket to just go back to sleep, and realizing she didn't actually have one, sprung to her feet and walked towards the bars of the cell.

The previous night was foggy, and she did remember taking longer than usual to get to the guardhouse, but where the hell was this? It was so gigantic, with corridors extending out of view in every direction, weird echoes and shadows... There was no way the guards managed to renovate and extend their dungeon in such a short time. Then there were the royal sigils on some of the iron protrusions used to hold the lanterns... Could it be?

She was suddenly struck by an urge to look around her cell. If her guess was correct, this was [i]bad[/i]. And why would fate disappoint? A gigantic, scarred man sat against the wall across her, his eyes hidden by a shadow that his forehead cast on his face. Sitting down, he was almost as tall as her. Her hands slapped against her tunic instinctively, quickly searching for anything the guards let her keep on her person, anything that wouldn't look important enough to take - It was at this time she realized how much of a vice it was to keep tidy and organized pockets. [i]Everything[/i] looked important. 

Then again, they did let her keep her clothes, and weren't as smart. She found one of the more useful tools she made herself, hidden in a double seam in her undershirt. A thin iron rod, about six inches in length, sharpened to a point on one end, chiseled to have protrusions of various shapes on the other. It could double up as a low quality replacement for half of her tools, and had saved her skin more than once. As a weapon, it wasn't deadly at all, unless it goes into a person's ear, eye, artery, privates, and other unpleasant options. Indeed, the element of surprise was her only advantage. And she hated it.

It took immense effort for her to not shake the giant awake to get the whole thing over with. Instead, she tried to push her head against the bars. The cells were not made to keep children, and she had the feeling that with a few grazes, her skull would pass through. Her hips, however, were an entirely different story. But even if she were ten years younger - where would she run? The place was probably swarming with guards. And the entire story was suspicious as hell - Sure, she was framed, but how does a dustie that'd done no harm other than toss some chairs find herself in the Royal Dungeon?!

In a ritualistic manner that probably made absolutely no difference, Harmony sat crosslegged in front of the bars, removed one glove and put her hand on the cold, ancient iron. Her eyes closed, she tried to remember the night before, but not in the normal sense - She tried to recall memories [i]she did not have[/i], events she did not witness. At first it was all noise, but as she recalled her nightly trip, she noticed a change of hands between the patrol leading her and another. They seemed confused. She then remembered sitting in the cell across, hurt and angry, disappointed and helpless, disgusted and wary. In a furtive, fearful kind of way her attention shifted to her own cell. The feeling was of a brilliant diamond, cut by a master craftsman, sunk into an infinitely large tank of oily mud.

Weird. But you can't argue with the results.

She got up again, put her glove back on, and waved at the three sitting in the cells across.