You open your eyes and find yourself lying on cold, hard rock, littered with dirt and garbage. You get up, shake the weariness from your body, and try to clear the confusion in your brain, but to no avail. It seems you have no memory whatsoever of what you were doing for the past 24 hours. Turning in a circle, you take note of your surroundings. You are in a prison cell, you notice, your heart sinking. Last time you woke up after a blackout you found yourself lying in a luxurious bed next to a beautiful companion in White-Gold Tower! You shake your head, and finally notice your cell mates, who seem to be in the same condition as you. What an odd assortment of people, you muse.

You look outside the cell door as you hear footsteps approaching. It's the jailor. "'Ello, folks, I see yer all up. That was quite a party you all were havin'. It's the talk of Whiterun, it is, what you were doing last night. And you," he says, pointing to you in particular, "I've seen some strange and horrible things in my life, but what you did with lettuce and yarn tops it all! Anyways, you all are in here on the charges of being drunk and disorderly in the streets of Whiterun. I'm only to keep you in here for a short time (10 turns), shorter than usual, but after that the Jarl said you should leave Whiterun if you know what's good for ye. Sorry if it's a bit crowded, but the other five cells each has a dangerous criminal in them, and I didn't want to leave you with a serial killer or the like. Well, enjoy yer stay, and holler if ya need anything, we jailors aren't really as mean as we look." With that, he turned around and walked over to the door, whistling and jangling his keys.

You take a look at your two cell mates a little more closely, noticing they are wearing a worn shirt and worn pants, just as you are. Wait a minute! You quickly pat your pockets, and smile as you feel he faint outline of a lockpick in your pocket. You give yourself a pat on the back; those stupid guards seem to always miss that one lockpick. Looking more at objects in your cell, you notice a small, low table, and sitting on it, a clay jug filled with water. Also, you examine a small grate in the corner of the cell--it seems to be some kind of trap door leading to the sewers. Taking a step back, you wrinkle your nose at the horrible smell wafting up out of the grate. Finally, you notice that the lock on the cell door is adept.

You sit down, pondering your options. What to do, what to do?

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The Argonian named Runs-With-Prey stood up slowly, testing the strength of his legs. After a short moment Runs-With-Prey decided that his legs would be quite okay. He looked around himself himself, looking for ways out. Infront of him he spotted a locked gate and beside him he saw a sewer grate that looked pretty unstable.

The lock infront of his seemed huch to hard for him to pick even though he had a pick. No. The grate beside him looked flimsy but Runs decided that he was to weak to break through it. No.

Well, he thought to the Hist stuck inside his cranium, what to do? The Hist instantly replied, water is your weapon enlightened one. Once again Runs looked around him, water? Then he spotted the full pitcher on the table, ah wonderful!

He picked up the pitcher and called for the gaurd, "we need water" he said in a typical Argonian accent. When the gaurd approached Hunts ATTACKED the gaurd with the water, splashing it in his face. Yes, the Hist will be pleased with this, he thought!

The last thing that Xa-Raku remembered was being challenged to a brawl by one of the bar's drunken nordic patrons. He had intended not to start trouble, but the nord had pressed the issue. He had downed a mug of ale before the fight, to help his muscles loosen up for the flowing movements to come, but evidently the beverage he had grabbed was a great deal stronger than he had anticipated, and his memory grew hazy immediately after. The new bruises and scraqes on him told a tale of a much bigger fight than he had planned on. He seemed to have recovered during his sleep in the cell, at least, but he still hoped he had not harmed too many people.

From now on, Xa-Raku decided that he would abstain from nordic alcohol wherever possible. Hardened though his body was against the toxins of the swamps, the abominable concoctions of hearty skyrim drunkards were an entirely different poison. He stood with his back against the wall, casting a healing spell on himself (Modifier: 0) to help ease his incessant hangover.

Once he had gotten his bearings, he took closer notice of the others in the cell with him. One was an argonian, but the other....

"...What are you?" Xa-Raku asked the bearded mer, before his attention was immediately called to the other one throwing a pitcher at a guard.