In your cell

The guards have taken you into the dungeons: a dark, underground prison whose only source of light comes from the torches at the guard's station. You've been left in a tiny cell far from the flame. In the cell lies a wooden cot, covered in dust, and stained with dry blood. Your hands have been bound, but the guards have been gracious enough not to chain you to the wall with a collar. It seems to have been hours since they locked you in here.

A young guard, not much taller than yourself, approaches with torch in hand. You try to get a good look at him, but he lowers his face, avoiding to meet your eye. The sloshing of liquid can be heard. As the young man comes closer, you see that he holds a jug in his off arm. Whether water or ale, you care little; any refreshment would do.

"Have you brought water?" you ask him.

The guard jumps slightly, startled by your sudden speech. "I...I," he stutters, still avoiding eye contact. His nervousness is obvious. You think it is likely shyness. "I've brought you—some water," he stumbles out.

"You're too kind," you respond, causing his head to jerk up, and his mouth to smile. He quickly lowers his head again. 

"Thank you," he mumbles awkwardly. You noticed his face in those brief seconds. He has light brown eyes and a clean shaven chin. He's cute in a sort of way. Not handsome, but he has a kind face. He hands you the jug through a slot in the cell. "Try not to drink it all quick," he cautions. You catch him taking another look at you, but like a scarred rodent, he shrinks his head back into his hole.

"What is your name, ser?" you ask him in the most harmless tone you can.

He nervously shifts, embarrassed by your praise. "I'm...I'm no knight, milady."

"And I'm no lady," you reply with a smile.

"Ss—sorry."

"No harm in a compliment. What is your name?" you ask him again.

"Theor, miss."

You take a quick swig from the jug. "That is a most handsome name," you lie to him. "My name is Morgan."

"I," he stutters, "uh, I know. I was there at the trial."

"You were at the trial?" you ask with false shock—it's common for guards to be present during trials. "You weren't one of the guards who grabbed me, were you?" You know that he wasn't. "They were oh so rough."

"No. I'm sorry they hurt you." It's refreshing for once to see a nice young man. A naive, simple one—but nice. Perhaps a girl will see his naivety as sweetness. The boy deserves as much. "They should not handle a woman so roughly."

"I imagine I'll find it rougher at the tower."

Theor looks up again, though this time he does not avoid your gaze. He's taken a serious tone to his face. "You should really take a champion, miss."

"I can handle myself, Theor—but I'm touched by your concern." He appears less than convinced.

"It is foolish, miss. You cannot defeat a man." He lowers his head again. "And they have you going against the worst."

"Who?" you ask, ignoring the disrespect he unknowingly showed you.

"I should not say—I'm not suppose to talk to you." You can tell he is frightened.

"Would you champion me?" you ask him, knowing his answer.

"I...I'm sorry. I can't—" he begins.

"—But you can at least tell me who I will be fighting." He shakes his head in ****. "Please," you implore him, "do me this small service."

"You'll—you'll be battling Ser Elric Terrowin." Theor begins to back away. "I'm sorry," he says as he turns and walks away.

"Thank you, Theor," you call to him.

Ser Elric Terrowin is well known by both the nobility and the poor. He's won many tournaments and has brought much honor to the kingdom with his displays of valor in war. The man is larger than any other, with muscles to match. Other knights dare not insult him. Ladies refuse to be in his company. He is a frightening man.

The nobility have a right to fear him, even if they know not his crimes. But the poor know him for his misdeeds. He's **** countless maidens of the lower class, pillaged farms, and set fire to homes to hear the inhabitants' shriek as they burned alive. Once, he crushed the skull of a babe because it crawled in his path. Elric Terrowin is a monster, and like a monster, he is a terror in battle.

Perhaps it would be wise to find a champion, you humor yourself. But you are no coward. A large man such as him will tire fast, provided he doesn't tear your head off first.

You take a large gulp from the jug before lying down on the cot. You'll certainly need to be well rested for tomorrow.