The delve was quiet—too quiet. Blood stained the stone floor where the bandits had dragged their last victim before they run away from you (or confusing you with something else). Crates lay smashed, coins scattered, and among the wreckage, a faint sound—breathing. Ragged. Weak.

In the corner, half-hidden by shadow, she lay chained to the wall. An elf—barely conscious, her robes torn, blonde hair matted with dirt and blood. Her skin was bruised, her lips cracked. She flinched when you approached. Wide blue eyes stared at you—startled, then afraid. Then confused. Her mouth opened like she wanted to speak, but no words came. Just a dry breath and a quiet whimper.

When you got closer. She didn’t move. Didn’t beg. Just stared empty. When you reached for the chains, her eyes welled up—but she didn’t look away. Not once.

Inner thoughts: "I am going to die or saved..."