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For four years it had stayed in his bag. A long lost memory, though painfully remembered and revisited often. A mark of expert craftsmanship, each piece of thread woven with such care that together they held fast against most any weight. Its owner often yearned for the day it would be put to use.

Only once before had it been shaped into a tight circle, perfectly arranged in an order to grip at the throat snugly. Rough hands inspected it with a yank, making sure the loop was tight and secure. The noose waved back and forth against the tree limb as he let it go. The figure turned towards the small river behind him, dropping down to his knees. Tears, like rain to a drought, came to his cheeks. The screech of his blades as they were removed from his sheaths broke the silence filled only by the pounding of his heart. They were dropped into the water, the magic fizzling with a deep hiss as they sunk to the bottom.

“I have failed you.” The figure said, speaking to everyone and no one.

A dwarven year had past since the day he stood on those banks, a ripping flame in roar floating downstream, his eyes tightened to fight back the mounting storm.

Innocence.

Water represented a bath of memories, a reflection of life. His own reflection had changed drastically in that year. Never much of a man for appearance, his personal hygiene had gone with his care for his own life. Stress had ate away at his hairline, creating jagged recesses towards the back of his skull. Rounded pools of darkness, a collection of little sleep, wrapped around his eyes as if they were threatening to engulf everything around them.

His breath, though never pleasant, now stank with the pungent aroma of the spirits and too much smoke. A faint shadow of a beard fought a battle with the paleness of his already cadaverous skin. Creases mounted a charge against his eyes and smeared across his cheeks, a simple grin or a rare smile only going to multiply the effect.

A rough hand rippled the waters. The sight was unbearable. Not so much what he looked like. The guilt in those eyes, for he had wronged. He had sinned.

He stood slowly, stepped upon the wobbly stool. The noose was about his neck in seconds, his hands firmly tightening it around his gulping throat. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

And he thought about yesterday, and tomorrow.

A splash of liquid aroused him to wake, followed by the screaming burn that flowed up his nostrils and down into the back of his throat. Elijah grasped violently for a breath, his eyes opening only briefly in the struggle as they too, met the burning sensation. A voice spoke to him, but a rush of pain circulated throughout his body, only multiplied by the broiling feeling in the back of his throat. Suddenly his head jerked to the right as a strong hand made contact, almost knocking him from the chair he was bound to.

"Wake up, ye bastard."

The screech of a chair being dragged against the floor was audible. A door closed somewhere in the darkness. Elijah could feel the presence of someone now, made even more known by the sudden wave of heat and light that shone about them. Elijah fought to open his eyes, but a thick film of liquid met any attempt, distorting any image and causing him to tear up in pain. A figure was indeed there, one finger pointed upwards with a fireball neatly dangling on top.

"You tell me answers, and I shall have you cleaned up in no time. You don't cooperate, and this fireball will come into contact with that liquid there, incinerating you in seconds."

Age had not yet rippled across the plateau that was Elijah's face. His hair, coal black and wavy, though always stubborn in the back, sit atop an ashen yet smooth face. He choose not to speak for long moments, holding his breath, as if preparing a fireball himself. Something that he'd become known for later in life.

"Then ask me questions."

Anger and hate questioned, "Did I not raise you? Did I not take you from the streets, hold you to my bosom and feed you? Did I not support you when no other would? And how do you repay my generosity? By storming my very gates with a mob," the man's voice rose to a yell then, "intending to kill me!" The figure stood then, seeming to pace as he continued. "You god damned bastard," the man spat these words at Elijah, "I should have your very head hanging from the gates this morning, and all your limbs distributed amongst the caravans for all the land to see. I should make the very name Elijah synonymous with traitor, with vile cheap skate who swindles his way in close for personal gain. And what say you?"

The figure leaned over him then, both hands resting firmly on the arm rests of the chair. The stench of his breath, the warmth from his sizzling veins were apparent. The voice said again, "What say you?"

Elijah took no time to think his of his sentences, any time to create elaborate and eloquent responses, his eyes opening despite the pain.

"What you don't understand is, I fought you because I was close to you. I fought you because I've seen what you've done. I know how little you care for your people. I know what the taxes go to. I've seen the bodies of the children who never leave your private chamber alive. Our people's children. I know how diseased you've become with power, how twisted and bent it has made you. A cruel thing power can do to people, is it not?"

Frail after frail punch smacked into Elijah's face, as the man emitted a wail much like that of a distressed woman. The frenzy did not stop until Elijah was left with a coat of blood mixing with his already wet face, creating a smoothie of pain and torture. For long moments after the episode ceased, the figure hovered over him, panting in desperation. A loud and long laugh filled the void.

Footsteps exited the room. Elijah managed to part his lips and utter one last sentence before the door fully closed, "When do you end this?" A laugh was heard, though more of a halfhearted chuckle.

"End this? No, I shall not give you the glory of dying from my hand. I shall give you a glimpse of what it is like to be dark and twisted. His name is Janorac. Leader of the Jria Gang. The murderous mercenaries who kill for money, and plunder for pleasure. You will become a servant to murder and rape. A willing participant to the valley of souls in Cherga's realm."

A mad cackle followed the door closing. The echo of that laugh was the last thing Elijah heard before his eyes closed, and he lapsed in and out of consciousness.