Author's Notes:
This is…random…to say the least. Not random as in weird/funny, but random as in…It's got some ideas from a D&D campaign I'm a part of right now, and some ideas from Dragonblade; I'm not too sure if it'll go anywhere. Not too sure what it is in the first place.

-The main character's name is "Kelch" but do not get this confused with the "Kelch" in Dragonblade (if you happen to read that). Like stated above, this is somewhat based off of a D&D campaign, and my most active character in that campaign just happens to be a rogue/thief named "Kelch." This is his story. Sort of. And yes I reuse character names in my games. Sue me.-

--

1 - Present Day

Breathe.

My stomach clenches in pain as I force in a breath of air and then cough.

Gasp. Air. Breathe.

Someone's fingers grip my hair and throw my head back against the stone wall. I whimper and spit blood out of my mouth, taking another deep breath.

Breathe!

My left arm is stretched out almost parallel to the ground. Ropes, chains, something…is wrapped around my left wrist, pinning it to the wall. The same thing is done with my right arm and wrist on the other side of my body.

I open my eyes for a moment, catching a glimpse of plate armor shuffling around me. Guards. Many guards. I groan and close my eyes as if that will help me escape this nightmare.

Caught.

It is not until they stretch, spread, and band my legs that I realize I'm not touching the stone prison below me. I must be a few inches from the ground, tied to a prison wall, a thief caught and…

Air suddenly escapes my lungs. I would have bent over, but the only thing I can do is clench my fists, hang my head, and tense my body.

And breathe.

I cough again as air forces its way in somehow. "That one was for good measure," I hear, the voice drifting off, following the footsteps.

Laughter. A door slamming shut. Retreating footsteps.

And then…

Silence.

I'm alone now. Alone in the darkness. Alone with the darkness. Gasping for breath. Strung up like a caught animal.

I don't understand it. I'm nothing more than a thief. A pitiful little childish Half-Elven thief.

Why the lone cell? Why the extra caution? Why the beatings as if I were an assassin?

Because you are one...

Blood can be found on me from head to toe. Blood from the beatings. Blood from the last killing I'll ever do. Blood…

I wonder if the Thieves' Guild does prison breaks. I wonder…

I can hope. I've never heard of a prison break before, and the Thieves' Guild isn't really that close of a family. But…

I can hope.

--

Time passes. The darkness remains.

Then. Suddenly. A door squeaks open. Light enters the area. I squint my eyes, for they are now open.

"Oy! Kelch!"

Could it be?

Sweat licks down my cheek and I stare. Confused. There is a man I do not know, yet he seems oddly familiar. He knows my name, but that doesn't mean a thing now. My name is spread through cities like wildfire. Assassin. Thief. Dared to be called hero by some.

This man smiles at me. Silvery hair gleams in the torch light. A pair of black red-trimmed dragon wings fan out from his back. A black dragon tail drags on the stone behind him. He seems so familiar. Yet I remember not his name.

How can I forget the name of someone who has dragon features? It just seems…

Sigh. Memory's failing me. That's not a good sign.

"You'll get your chat in a moment, Draiken. Right now, I have orders to abide by." Another voice accompanies the entrance of a loosely clad guard.

The guard approaches me, and I gulp. He's holding a whip. I shy back as much as I can, which isn't very much considering my legs and arms are bound.

The guard simply laughs and raises his whip. "Five lashings. That's the current sentence. Five lashings a day."

I gulp.

I have pain to look forward to every day now?

As soon as the question forms in my mind, pain races across my chest.

Pain.

Fire. It feels like fire, streaking across my chest, leaving a thin line of blood to seep through my white shirt.

Pain.

The edge of the whip catches my cheek and I throw my head up immediately, banging my head into the wall behind me.

Pain.

What is this? Number three? Another line joins the first two. I feel hot tears welling in my eyes.

Pain.

Harsher this time. The end catches my right arm. I think I'm screaming.

Pain. Pain. Pain!

--

Eventually, my cries fade out. Eventually, I hang my head again. Eventually, I look up…and stare into a pair of strange red and black eyes that are staring right back.

"Oy, Kelch," says the familiar stranger. "Ye done yet?"

Odd. His accent reminds me of the Dwarven language. Yet he looks like an Elf. Well. An Elf with dragon wings and tail. What did the guard call him earlier? Draiken?

To answer the stranger's question, I nod.

He grunts. "Can ye talk?"

Blood trickles down my chin and starts to make a tickling track down my neck. I can't scratch the itch it causes, either. "Yeah, I can talk," I mutter. Blink. "Why?"

The Draiken simply smirks and spins around, nearly smacking me in the face with his wings. I stare at him as he walks to the closest part of the wall on the opposite side of the cell. There's a book in his hand, and…a quill and bottle of ink.

"Can ye tell me yer int'resting tale, mate?"

I feel surprised, I think. I stare at him. And blink my eyes. For a long time. I watch as he spins around and sits down, his wings folding in, his back against the wall, his tail curled around him. The book is open in his lap, the quill wet with ink, when he decides to look up and raise an eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Why?" I nearly whisper.

Here I am, a caught thief, a trapped assassin. Here he is, a Draiken, familiar yet not, sitting close to a known killer. And he wants me to tell my tale?

At my question, he simply waves his hand in the air. "Why does no matter, mate. All tha' matters is…you will be dead soon. Is it too much ta ask ye for ye tale? Out of simple int'rest?"

I close my eyes and hang my head, chin resting against a torn shirt. I sigh.

Memories. He's going to force me to remember everything. Just by asking me this, I'm remembering. Old friends. An old life. I remember being carefree and happy. Adventuring like a child.

"Well?" He asks for the second time.

I lift my head and look toward him, falling into the old habit of looking not in the eyes but just to the side of them. "Fine. I have nothing better to do with my time."

As if on cue, a painful itch flares up on my arm where the whip had cut earlier. I wince.

The Draiken laughs. "No, ye do not. This is true."

I glare. He grins. If my arms weren't bound, I probably would have shrugged. "I can start from the beginning. My days in the Thieves' Guild. A little…background information. Would that work?"

"Go on. Go on. Jus' talk. Le' me handle the embellishing."

A tickle of a laugh forms in my throat, but it doesn't make it out. "What are you? Some kind of writer?"

His eyes meet mine and I see a small sort of flash in those odd red and black slits. "Some know me as a wri'er. Others know me as a warrior. Ev'ry adventurer needs a normal job."

I feel a smirk start to form on my face, and I grunt. "Heh. I don't think many people would consider thievery a normal side job." He shrugs. "Neither would the art of killing. Stealing and killing." I sigh. "Look what adventuring did to me."

"But ye were in the Thieves' Guild, were ye not?" Draiken asks.

I chuckle. Lightly. Very lightly. "One could say, I was born into it."