Kjalr awoke to a small beam of sunlight streaming from somewhere above his head and water dripping onto his leg monotonously. He tried to sit up slowly but suddenly felt like a wave rushed over him. Groaning, he laid his head back down and waited for the room to stop spinning. He tried to recollect the events of the past ... however many days it had been. He remembered sailing with his crew of ten, in a small fleet of 7 other ships. They landed on the beach, only to be greeted by the Fyrd of the shire they were raiding, gathered and prepared. The battle went ill, and the last thing Kjalr remembered was being the last man on the battlefield and taking a sword pommel to the face. 

	He tried sitting up again, this time with more success. He found himself in a small dungeon cell, laying on a threadbare, straw-packed cot. There was a bucket in the corner and a tray of stale bread and rotten beef by the bars of the cell. Mustering his strength, Kjalr stood and made his way to the bars, which he used to keep himself standing.

	Beyond the bars was a dim hallway, lit by two torches. On either side of the hall was another cell. On the wall between his cell and the one on the right was a table, laden with his weapons and armor. His sword, Smarhyrr, was just barely out of reach.

	"Hello!?" he called to the darkness. He could only hope for a response now.