Nisil woke.
His ears rang as he watched dust slowly settle around him.
Raising his head with a wince, he slowly sat up. As his vision blurred, he quickly laid his head back down with a thud and glanced around the pit, forlorn.
His eyes lit upon his crossbow, only a few feet away. It was tantalizingly close as he stretched but came up short.
Now painfully clear to the dark elf, he realized he needed to crawl.
As he twisted his body and began to shift, a high-pitched growling emanated from the blackness.
Nisil shot up and threw his hands forth, instinctively.
Flames burst forth his outstretched hands and lit the darkness before him, immolating one of the skeevers mid-leap.
Its writhing form collided with him, aflame.
As it kicked and snapped in agony, he rolled and shoved it off of him. He withdrew and watched in disgust as it continued to writhe and shriek.
To Nisil's surpise, he was knocked back hard into the rubble once more, as the second skeever pounced.
Viciously, it snapped and tore at his thin robes to sink putrid teeth deep into his elven flesh.
Nisil howled and thrashed his forearms to fend off the onslaught whilst he scrambled for his belt.
Cursing and frantically grasping for his dagger, he eventually drew the blade and immediately plunged it into the creature's side. He withdrew, and plunged it home once more.
He repeatedly stabbed the flailing creature as it grew weaker. He rolled to the side and transposed his foot on its bleeding form. He shoved with his might, sending it down the rubble. As it wobbled to its feet with a whimper, it turned and scampered deeper into the pit; staggering as it went.
Its breaths grew ragged; it lurched and slid along the wall toward a narrow corridor until at last, it expired. As it lay there, its ragged paws twitched and contorted in spasms.
Silence fell on the cavern, and the flames of the burning Skeever flickered down low. Nisil collapsed on the scree to gaze up the dimness enveloping him.
The scent of stagnant air and burned fur sickened him.
Minutes passed, while his panting subsided and initial terror gave way to pain.
His shoulder throbbed as he touched it, and blood oozed from under his hand.
Fear gripped him once more at the prospect of attempting to climb out, lest he discover it truly was what he feared: impossible.
In his mind, a familiar voice echoed, 'You must learn to get up, Nisil.'
For a brief moment, he was a boy once more, curled up on the cold cobble stones of Windhelm. His nose bled, and stomach ached. He hesitated to draw deep breath. The wicked laughter of cruel Nord boys grew distant.
He remembered how small he had felt, until his father had picked him up and brushed him off.
Tears welled in in the darkness. He was sore and cold and miserable and terrified.
And he had just bailed himself out of this terrible situation with something of which he was so ashamed: magic.
Nearly all dark elves could cast some weak flame-based magic, but it was taboo in Nisil's household. When Nisil and his sister had first discovered their talent, they were craven to try it. Upon discovering this, their parents had insisted it not be used and likened it to their emotions.
'The more you rely upon it and practice it, the more you will lean on it to solve your problems, same with anger and hurting others. Soon, you could find yourselves no better than the rogues and bandits on the streets, using violence and this magic for your own ambition.'
Nisil hung his head in his hands and wept in the earthen crypt.
Moments passed in this manner before a whisper emanated from the depths, 'one day I may not be there to pick you up.'
A jolt of emotional lightening spurred him to action.
Nisil immediately began to fumble through his rucksack and bandaged his shoulder rapidly.
He even took a moment to recognize the irony of his situation: all his ingredients he knew to use for treating a dirty wound were miles away and aboveground.
Nisil threw himself into the effort of climbing. Again and again he attempted.
All resulted in failure as the rockwork continued to crumble. The smooth water-worn rockwork that comprised the walls offered even fewer handholds than the crumbling scree.
At legth, Nisil sat and gazed absently into the crawlspace before him.
As his only way out, he shuddered to think of the dark denizens within.
Nisil nearly wept tears of joy as he continued forth on his hands and knees into a smaller chamber. He straightened, grateful that his tunnel crawling was over.
Before he could celebrate, however his nostrils were assailed by the stench of rotted food and waste.
Rats and other creeping things shunted from his torchlight as he examined the dump around him. Broken cauldrons, boxes of rotted produce, rotted corpses of animals all were heaped within.
While he was grateful to have an exit, he hastily picked his way across the room and begged the Divines to not allow him to slip.
Nisil was crestfallen to see torches within the cavern beyond.
Another familiar voice, a girl's, rang through the dark. 'What? Are you afraid of the dark, Neesee?'
Shaking his head, he peered around the edge of the rock.
Nisil held his breath and ducked his head back into the confines of the tunnel: disgusted and terrified.
Peering around once more, he grimaced and examined the grisly spectacle.
Speared upon mammoth tusks and stakes, as if perched in some macabre display, an elk head faced directly towards him.
Maggots writhed within its eyes and fell down past a necklace adorned of feathers and bird's feet.
His focus shifted beyond the macabre display and to the column beside it. Two tents stood on the far side of the cavern, constructed of tree limbs and matted furs. Beneath, a hunched woman worked at a table with her back to him.
Seizing his fleeting opportunity, he deftly crept beyond the column and slipped into tunnel leading further into the system.
Nimila would be proud, he thought through bated breath.
Nisil pitied the creature as he looked down upon it from the shadows. The troll stood listlessly, chained and collared, seemingly on the verge of collapse.
As Nisil estimated the length of the chain, he pondered the size of the small chamber. There was a skylight to the surface which held the remains of an enormous mammoth skull. Twilight rays drifted down into the chamber, and occasionally Nisil could taste the fresh air: a welcome change from this dank interior.
He felt he could scramble up the slope and perhaps leap to the tusks to pull himself to freedom, but not without awakening the beast, and likely calling whatever else lurked within this abode to his location.
Not wanting to take any risks, he retrieved one of the potions from his satchel and watched it swirl as he drizzled it onto his loaded bolt. His favorite potion held the consistency of honey with age, and he knew it to be an especially potent batch.
Taking careful aim, the bolt plunged into the small of the troll's back. With a short, lazy roar it turned and its eyes lit upon Nisil.
While he had confidence in his abilities, he quickly began to doubt them as the hulking creature took its first steps towards him.
Thankfully, he tumbled forth as it took effect before toppling with a crash to the fern-covered cavern floor, sound asleep.
Nisil knew it would be short lived and took off immediately for the slope. He scrambled up the slimy boulders, thick with algae and mushrooms. With a deep breath to steel his resolve, he leapt, arms outstretched for the lowest tusk.
He swung low and nearly lost his grip. As tightly as he could, he bear hugged it.
He looked down at the troll beneath him as he pumped his legs furiously, feverishly trying to muscle himself atop the tusk.
To his dismay, he saw a torchlight flickering in the tunnel from which he came.
Safety was tantalizingly close. He pleaded for the divines to give him the strength, yet his praywer were unanswered.
The skull shook precariously as he continued to struggle.
No time to spare, he dropped his rucksack and crossbow and swung himself on the tusk.
As he did, the hunched woman stormed into the room, arcane energy emanating from her torch less hand.
The alchemist froze as she stepped into the room, scanning it and spinning wildly about. Her lank hair was disheveled and black robes tarnished. Yellowed nails attached to long and fallow fingers, white as candles.
She stood over the troll, disgusted, and spat upon the beast, decrying his feebleness at being felled with a single bolt.
Nisil trembled in exhaustion as she turned to his things, nudging them with her foot.
He shifted his grip to avoid slipping, and a thin trail of dirt toppled down from the skull onto her balding head.
Rapidly, she gazed skyward, locking eyes with her quarry.
"Aha!" she cackled as her pale eyes lit with malice.
Her hand glowed with arcane energy as a long shard of ice crystallized.