[littlemanpoet]

Tharonwe watched his jailer, Iorgil. The man appeared to be quite satisfied with his supper, if his rather rancid and ale-ridden belch was any indication.

"What news, jailer?"

You will tell me that which is most important in your mind.

"Stolen horse, the king's own."

"Indeed? Who is the thief?"

You will tell me who you truly believe instead of telling me nothing.

"There is word that some women who were expected to remain behind an adventuring party have left the city."

"I see. How odd. Do you not think so?"

"Aye. Women ought to stay with their men, or if their men must leave, stay behind with the little ones."

"Indeed. Might there be the smallest chance that I could have an extra bit of porridge? I am cold this night."

You will give me what I ask for and you will drop your keys and fail to notice it, then leave.

"Oh aye, I suppose I could."

Events occurred precisely as Tharonwe wished. He waited for hours. At least, when he deemed it, by his sanwë, to be long past midnight, he opened his cell and crept out of the prison on quiet feet. Only another Elf could have seen him pass, and none stood guard. He sought the sleeping mind of Iorgil and found him, asleep in his own home on the fifth level. He went to his home, entered through the window, placed the keys back in the man's jerkin, and left the city in search of some women. He had an idea what they looked like and who they were. He walked north.