The cold stone under her cheek conflicted harshly with the heat oozing from her back. Again, she had refused to pleasure one of the more brutish men here, and he had decided that some... 'encouragement' was necessary. The High Elven woman pushed herself up on thin, shaky arms. Careful not to agitate her lash-wounds further, She cursed herself in silence. If only she had the strength to use her magic, or at could at least reach deeply into the inborn reserves of magicka her kind had- she'd have slaughtered each and every divines-damned bandit here, and have toppled this ruination of a fort they called 'home'. However, years of malnourishment and the horrid conditions of her cell had left her sickly and weak, completely obliterating her ability to think straight.
She managed to situate herself in a position as comfortable as the searing pain would allow her, pressing her hot wounds against the cold wet stones that kept her here. As she rested her shaven head back, she tried to recall how long she had been here; the light pouring in from the snow-dusted window far above from even her lengthy reach had become unreliable, as it was nearly impossible to discern night from day from that tiny opening, so she had no choice but to keep track through her daily... 'visitations'. Thinking back on those horrible moments, on the feelings so horrid that she couldn't name...
She had been a virgin, then...
The thought alone brought tears to her eyes. She had always romanticized that moment of intimacy, and never expected to have her innocence ripped away from her with such terrifying hunger. Four years- almost five... she forced herself from her reverie. Four years, and she's still here. She sighed, and wondered which of the Daedric princes had pitted this torment against her. She figured she would never see the sun again, that she would die here- whether one of the bandits would finally grow tired of her disobedience, or if she starved first, she didn't know.
Her dark thoughts were ripped away with a single quiet squeak, and she replied with a soft whistle. A tiny pink nose poked through a crevice that hugged the floor beside her, and after a few seconds of uncomfortable chitters, a absurdly small and plump skeever managed to worm its way out and settle itself beside her. She grinned and greeted the rat- Rumare- with a loving scratch behind its large ears. This was her best friend. Her only friend.
The rat was no doubt vastly different from his other stupid, savage, dog-sized kin. Rumare looked at his High Elven companion. Intelligence and love shone brightly in his large beady eyes. He placed both of his tiny paws against her thigh and tapped against her excitedly, looking back at the crevice he came in from. He had something for her.
The High Elven woman scooted closer to the crevice, wincing as the movement irritated her wounds and re-opened another. Rumare wiggled into the opening, and struggled trying to back out. She wrapped her hands around her plump companion, gently tugging him free. There was something in Rumare's mouth. She gave the object a soft tug and he allowed her to take it. Tears welled up in the High Elven woman's eyes.
It was a small bundle of thick cloth wrap.
Before, Rumare wold always steer clear of her cell if he caught wind of any scent, besides that of the one he trusted. That meant that for hours after her lashings, the High Elf would often lie in her cell... alone. However, after a particularly nasty encounter with the bandit-leader's mutt, the sharp coppery scent of blood became associated with that of pain. The wounded rat had spent days away from his companion, healing, and watched something he found fairly entertaining, yet stupid. He watched from the ceiling beam, directly above two drunken cretins.
Afterwards, Rumare continued to watch as two more of the humans came across the two drunkards- both of whom had blacked out at this point- and watched as they plastered the thick cloth wrap over the drunkard's bleeding wounds. The skeever believed the same method would work for his friend, who had grown worried about his absence. The High Elf brought the rat close to her bare chest in a loving embrace, a few tears stealing down her face.
At the same moment, heavy footsteps stopped in front of her door. A tray slid under the heavy oak. This would be her meal for the day- the remnants of someone's breakfast and a near-empty bottle of mead. She wiped her tears and, putting Rumare down, picked up the tray and placed it in her lap. Mostly backwash at this point, she thought as she picked up the bottle. Often, she would think about starving herself, and wondered why she had never gone through with it. Something inside her was compelling her to keep up with her horrid existence, that this isn't how she was supposed to end.
She decided not to well on it, and broke off a decent-sized chunk from the crust of a half-eaten sweetroll. She held the scrap in front of Rumare, who took it between his tiny paws and nibbled away contentedly. His companion slowly eating at her portion. She noted that Rumare's appetite had grown over the last few weeks, and he was fattening up.
She was washed over with a wave of sadness. One day, Rumare will grow too plump to be able to visit me, and I'll be all alone again... Again, her mind was swallowed with darkening thoughts. That moment wouldn't be far from now- Rumare was tiny and young, but was growing rapidly. He's already struggling to fit through the crevice.
She finished her meal in silence, and decided to try and patch herself up. Tearing the cloth into segments, and using the last bit of the remaining mead, the High Elf managed to clean her wounds; the cloth was stuck sloppily over the deeper, more serious lacerations. She was glad that the free-flow of blood had slowed to a mere ooze quite a while ago, which meant she wouldn't need to replace her bandages so soon.
She tried to think back of her life before- this was something she did quite often. Each time was a disheartening game of cat-and-mouse - her memories were elusive; always teasingly within arm's reach, but she could never grasp them. More often than not, the games would infuriate her to the point of abandoning the task for another day. Lost in thought, Rumare had curled up in her lap, and she absent-mindedly ran her hand through his ragged fur.
How had I gotten here?
Where did I come from?
What is my name?
...Who am I?
These were the essential questions she would ask herself each time she would play this game. Rumare squeaked his annoyance as loving strokes became harsh with emotion. She stopped herself.
It can wait another day, she decided. It's not as if I, or my memories, are going anywhere anytime soon...
She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand; she would sleep on it. She picked up Rumare and crawled- trying not to disturb her patched wounds- to the deer hide stretched across the floor. This was the one luxury her captors had provided for her, and she curled up on it, Rumare taking his place against her belly. Even though the cold winter air wafted through the small window and licked at her bared body, sleep still managed to find her.
As she slept, three large figures stood on a hill on the outskirts of the toppled fortress, far from the detection of any archers or guards stationed around the ruin. Calf-deep in the torrential onslaught of snow, two of the characters had pulled their thick fur cloaks tightly around themselves. One stood apart, the winds ripping and tearing at his heavy cloak; the freezing winds of winter were nothing to him if there was a heavy sum of gold to spill through his finger afterwards. Staring at the deeply-creased paper in his beefy fist, a wolfish grin split his face- his white teeth flashing in the darkness. A low, hearty, and blood-lusting chuckle followed.
"This be the place, me boys. Ready yer weapons- we're movin' in 'n paintin' the place red." His gravelly voice split the howling of the wind.