#teneas

On the outer rings of the city, the lanterns burned low. Sooner or later, someone would come around and refill them, offering the people of Stormwind some comfort in the night. It was usually a side of town that bolstered all kinds of life despite the hour. Even though it was late, people could still be spotted in the streets or hanging around the loud taverns, bawdy with laughter and music. Still one did not want to linger if they could help it. The guards had posts all around, sure, but pickpockets and other dark terrors creeped in the alleyways.

A cloaked figure walked hurriedly down the road, steering clear of the few night owls if he could help it. He was careful to keep the hood up over his features and his face turned down. Some people still didn't react kindly to half-elves. Nevertheless, if someone were to catch a glimpse of his face, they'd probably think him a beggar with the mats in his hair and beard and a smell that was not pleasant to one’s nostrils.

Teneas passed by a guard, giving the man a curt nod. The armored watcher didn't react besides keeping his eyes on the moving man in silence. He could feel the steely gaze cut through him, a warning to hurry and get to where he was going. It wasn't far and he’d be at the tiny home he shared with his mother once.

He turned down the next street. Down at the end, he saw the familiar little home, with two big barrels on either side of the step with purple pansy and a dark hunter green painted on the window shutters. It still looked lived in and well-kept at least. He paused, wondering if this was really the right thing.

In a frantic battle in his head, he would walk down a few steps and then turn back around with an inaudible yell. His stomach was in knots. He was sure at least an hour had passed by the time he was climbing on the steps and found himself knocking on the door.

Silence. It seemed to drag on forever. He knocked again. Someone yelled from the inside, they had clearly been rudely awoken in the middle of the night. A light turned on and dimly lit up the window. Some shuffling came from behind the door, what he assumed was at least 3 different locks being undone and then the door opened a crack.

He would have barely recognized her if he passed her on the streets. She had aged immensely since he last saw her. Her tan skin looked like a leather mask on her gaunt face, wrinkles at the corner of her eyes and forehead. Her once beautiful black hair was now more grey than anything and hung in a heavy braid over her shoulder. Despite her age, her thin lips and hawk eyes glared out at him.

“Well? What is it? Or are you so daft between the ears you've forgot what it is you go knocking on doors in the middle of the night for?”

Teneas kept his face as calm as he could. His hands, a subtle shake he hoped the elder didn't notice, pulled back his hood. His own dark eyes met hers, which were now beginning to show the first signs of recognition and shock.

“C’mon, Ma. Is that any way to greet your son?”

Although Teneas would never admit it, he missed An’rel. At the moment, he laid on his cot studying the ceiling. Each little crack split into smaller ones like a tree root system. If she was here, she probably would have compared the tiniest of the cracks to his manhood.

The food wasn’t anything that even appeared to be edible. A wooden tray with a large helping of gray sludge heaped on top served twice a day. After his silent protest, Teneas accepted the pig slop as if it was a steak dinner.

By the fourth day, he was growing accustomed to the small jail cell. From what he had learned from listening to the old man he was with, there was a woman across from them. Her leathery drooping skin made her look more like a rat than a person. Next to hers, someone who’s species he didn’t know. They sounded male if the sobs of pain that came out of the slats of the door were indication. According to Teneas’ cell mate, that occupant was actively dying from an infection.

The only other body was an occasional guard. So far, it seemed to be the same two that rotated out. Teneas had nicknamed them Toothpick and Urf’bum. Toothpick was the fat one who punched Teneas his first day in here and was definitely the cruelest of the two, whacking on the bars of the prison cells with a stick when they tried to sleep or yelling at Rat across the hall she would be a pity fuck.

Sleep was all they could do, or talk. The only light they had were a couple of torches, which seemed to be more for the guards benefit then the prisoners. Even then, talking was kept to a minimum when the patrols happened.

Teneas frowned back at the guard who asked the question. Instead, he tried to kick his mud-caked boots on the table and lean back, despite the bindings that had his strapped to the chair. He began to work his tongue over a kernel stuck between his teeth.