The giant, bearded man sat on the slimy stone floor of his dungeon cell, back resting uncomfortably on a cell wall composed of uneven, rough-cut stone blocks. There was no light apart from the faint dimness that filtered in through the small, barred window in the cell’s door. It was just enough to see by, but there wasn’t anything to see; his cell had no decorations or furniture at all.
He wondered if they were going to torture him. The King of this place – “Deeteebenia”, was it called? – had sarcastically referred to the “King’s preferred treatment”, but Marc didn’t know what that was supposed to mean other than it probably wasn’t the good kind of treatment.
Having been alone for several hours now, he felt like any human interaction would be a good thing. Even if it was torture. In the absence of any other distraction, his thoughts swirled with the injustice of his predicament. He had been on a journey to Dawkinsland, the land of legend, where fame and glory awaited him, but a wrong path had been taken at some point, and he had ended up in this lesser kingdom ruled by the tyrannical and petty King DTB. Then, he had been jailed for suggesting that his arrival through the city gates had been a mistake, and that he wished to leave.
There were footsteps in the hallway and an orange light growing brighter. Marc sat up at attention. Soon, the face of one of the guards appeared in the window. He was carrying a torch which brightened up the cell significantly, and in his newly visible surroundings, Marc noticed an etching in one of the wall-stones in front of him. Not letting on that he had seen anything, he instead focused on the guard, who had dropped a few scraps of bread through the bars and was holding out a cup of water.
“Thank you,” Marc said, receiving no response. The guard left, and with him, the light by which to see. Now, everything seemed very dark, almost black. Realizing his urgent thirst, Marc gulped down half of the cup, but stopped there, not knowing when he would get another drink.
Once his thirst was quenched, he got on his hands and knees to closer inspect the inscription he had spotted on one of the stones. However, it was simply too dark; the only way he could tell that he was looking at the right spot was by running his fingers over the lightly-chiseled markings. Had they been left there by a joking craftsman in charge of building the cell? Or had they been left there by one of the cell’s previous inhabitants?