The Imperial City Prison. It was dark, it was damp and it stunk of rat piss all over. The only light came between the bars in the cell windows, and that was likely the only light Alrukir would see for a long time.
The Redguard sat against the wall of his tiny, bare cell, his long, black hair hanging over his dark eyes. Even before he had been imprisoned he was gaunt and lean, and now that he had been in there little over a month, on a rather wholesome diet of stale bread and water, he was looking particularly worse for wear. Down his chin ran a long, thick beard which was entangled with the other mass of hair.
There were only two prisoners in this wing, him and the Dark Elf 'Valen Dreth', who had not missed a single opportunity to taunt or mock him the entirety of his imprisonment here. "No more sunshine, no more open seas." Dreth had rasped at him when they first met. "Just a box and a dirty beam of light for the rest of your life." Maybe he was right, but it didn't make Alrukir want to cut the elf's throat any less.
He stared at the pitch black ceiling and reminisced over the events that led to his imprisonment. Before being cooped up in this pit, he had been a sellsword. Growing up on the rough streets of Sentinel, he learned of his penchant for killing at an early age. He sold his sword to rich and powerful nobles all over Hammerfell, and even did a few contracts in the nearby provinces of High Rock and Skyrim. He soon developed a reputation as the best of the best.
Recently, he was hired by a corrupt and sleazy, but powerful merchant prince to eliminate the competition. His target was a rival merchant, just as wealthy and powerful, who was travelling through Cyrodiil en route to Morrowind. This was no easy task either, as he was guarded by elite fighters from all over Tamriel, so Alrukir took a fairly large band of some of the best killers he knew and rode for Cyrodiil.
The plan was to ambush and wipe out the merchant and his heavily armed entourage just off the Cyrodiil-Hammerfell border, then flee back into Hammerfell to escape Cyrodiil's jurisdiction. A plan that would have worked without a hitch, had someone not betrayed them to the merchant. As they caught sight of the merchant in the Colovian Highlands, hordes of Imperial guardsmen jumped out of hiding all around them and demanded their surrender. The more foolish ones attempted to resist, and ended up full of arrows. Alrukir, seeing he was heavily outnumbered, threw down his weapons and surrendered. He was thrown off his horse, beaten to a bloody pulp and hauled off to the Imperial City to face trial. He ended up in this cramped little cell, and here he had remained ever since.
The sellsword's thoughts were interrupted when he heard the sound of a key turning in a door somewhere above. He jerked his head down as a door creaked open and heavy, metallic footsteps rang from the stairs. The figure who emerged was squat and broad. An Imperial, suited in iron plate bar the helm and gauntlets. Strapped to his thigh was a rusted iron mace, clearly more useful for intimidation value than actual combat. His face, like his body was fat and puffed up, his jowls hanging over his collar like fleshy curtains. He had no hair except for a thin, grey wisp around the back of his balding pate. His eyes were small and piggy, though just large enough to see the hatred and malice within them. His thick, puffy lips were twisted into a permanent sneer.
Brutus the jailor approached Alrukir's cell, carrying a knob of stale bread and a flagon of water. He carelessly tossed them in between the bars of the cell, grunting spitefully as he did so, the water partially spilling as the flagon slammed against the stone floor of the cell.
"Your meal, Redguard." the jailor rasped in his deep, resentful voice, his tone both mocking and hateful at the same time. "The bread's only been stale for about a week this time, and I may not have spat in the water, I don't quite remember." He sneered, his wormlike lips glistening with wetness as they twisted.
The Imperial, like Valen Dreth, harassed Alrukir whenever the opportunity presented itself. Only, he was worse, since he actually had power. He had never ceased trying to make the Redguard's stay at the Imperial City Prison a living nightmare. He would taunt him, pour his water over the floor right in front of him and jab him with his mace through the bars of the cell. Today, however, he must have been feeling especially generous, for he had only done one of those things so far.
He would not dare get close to Alrukir since the incident. During the sellsword's first week here, Brutus had taken one of his insults to heart and actually went into his cell to beat him. Only, the jailor instead ended up with half his ear bitten off. Alrukir earned the lash, as well as the eternal hatred of Brutus, but it was completely worth it to put that fat pig in his place.
He occasionally felt compelled to reply to the jibes, and this was one of those times. "I only hope it tastes as good as your ear, Brutus." The jailor's smug grin almost immediately disappeared and was replaced by a snarl. His fat face went bright red with fury and he started to reach for the mace at his hip, but realised the Redguard was too far away to reach.
"Well, enjoy it while you can, scum." he spat. "Every meal here could be your last. I could slit your throat now and no one would care."
"Why don't you, then?" asked Alrukir. The jailor made no reply, instead grunting angrily and retreating back up the stairs.
Alrukir glanced at the bread and kicked it to one side. He knew it was foolish to deny a meal down here, but he just was not hungry right now, especially not for bread harder than the walls of his cell. He took a gulp of water, laid back on his bedding roll and drifted to sleep.