The young, dark-haired elf lowers his head, weary, bruised and bloodied from battles too numerous to count. He lets out a deep, pained sigh, and digs his nail into the compact layer of dust-like dirt that coats the stone floor of his cell; absentmindedly, he scratches in a crude representation of a thick forest, with roughly-humanoid shapes flitting through the trees, mere shadows in his hand drawn moonlight. Glancing down, he makes a face that would suggest he were terribly ill, and, disgusted, the elf swipes a grimy hand across the etching, swiftly wiping it away just as he hears footsteps –multiple, for that matter—marching down the cell-lined corridor. After a few moments, the footsteps cease, through the elfin man makes no movement to show that he notices the five guards that have stopped before the door to his small, bare chamber. Truthfully, he is thoroughly annoyed by their presence, wanting nothing more than to be left to his own devices. One, a rather small human with bright blond hair, raps on the barred iron door, causing the elf to stir.

"Ecreahson! Get up!" He calls in a thick, slurring accent. Dwarvish, maybe, the elf thinks as he slowly gets to his feet. Glossy, unkempt raven locks brush his shoulders, falling into his eyes as he lifts his head to look to the guards. Bright, wary blue eyes watch them, the irises flecked with the deepest of violets, giving the eyes a smoky, unsettling semblance to them.

The blond unlocks the door. A middle-aged, nearly bald and slightly obese guard strides in, a pair of metal manacles gripped in one hand, the other hovering over the hilt of his rapier as he advances on the elf. Upon the warden reaching him, the elfin thief does no more than hold his wrists out to be bound, silent. The guard does so, equally silent, leading the man out the cell. Once the two exit the enclosure, two other sentries –both strong and forceful—take place on either side of the criminal, tightly gripping his upper arms to prevent his escape, should he attempt to do so. The blond takes the lead, and the final two others (one being the man who restrained the elf) move to walk behind the three, swords drawn and held at the ready.

Hands held limply at his front, the larcenist shuffles along with the formation, his annoyance growing ever stronger as they near the trial room. When they approach the trial room, they stop before the tall mahogany doors that lead to its inside. The doors swing open inwardly, as if of their own accord, and the elf is roughly pushed into the room, the blond being the only other to enter. The blond forces the elf to his knees, making him kneel before the imposing figure at the head of the room.

"Ilai Ecreahson," The elf looks up at the sound of his name. "Charged with the theft of twenty and five hundred crowns from Baroness Blaire." The thief's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"And?" He asks, the corner of his mouth twitching as he formulates a plan for escape, now only bound at the wrists.

"And," The prosecutor continues, "The murder of Baron Blaire." The thief's suspicions are realized as soon as the statement is said.

"That was not me." He snarls, voice echoing throughout the room. He jumps to his feet. Immediately making his way to stop Ilai, the blond guard runs to him, but Ilai darts to the left, spinning and sending a well-aimed kick to the man's midsection. The heel of his bare foot makes contact with ribs, and they snap with resounding cracks; the guard doubles over, hissing in pain, his sword clattering to the stone flooring. Ilai scoops up the blade in both hands, and, in the moments in which all others are too stunned to react, he bolts, running out through the huge mahogany doors and navigating his way out of the bastille, into the overcrowded pavilion in the centre of the village. His energy begins to wane –he's not gotten to eat or rest in nigh on four days. Ilai tosses the rapier aside near one of the trader's stalls in the area, finding it too troublesome and difficult to carry with bound wrists.

Nearing what seems to be a narrow alleyway, he makes a sharp turn and runs down it. Wives and nursemaids occupy the street, washing clothes and dishes and children, where they normally have some form of privacy. The thief's vision swims, stamina spent, and he staggers and sways, collapsing to his hands and knees on the rough dirt road. Beginning to murmur of his presence, several women and children turn to watch him, they unsure to be fearful or furious. Feeling unconsciousness grip him like a vice, he succumbs, sliding the rest of the way to the ground, eyelids fluttering closed as he hears frantic footsteps and female voices.