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As consciousness started to return to Bart he could feel two things - the painful thumping on the back of his head and the coldness of the stone he was lying on. His usual sword was no longer attached to his hip but thankfully whoever was in charge of searching his body didn't notice the daggers hidden within leather of his boots. The purse with his dishonestly earned winnings was gone too, and worst of all - some drunk asshole tore off the sleeves of his shirt. "As if I needed those to hide the aces" Bart murmured, more disappointed in ruined clothes than in the fact that he was thrown into jail. Although now that his eyes were slowly getting accustomed to darkness of surroundings and being able to focus - this didn't look like a typical jail. There was no entrance, just a long shaft above him and an equally long corridor in front, barely lit by the luminiscent moss on the walls. He tucked one of the daggers behind his back, gripped the other one in his right hand and started slowly walking away from his place of awakening in search for a way to escape. 

Nearby in a similar open hallway with a tall shaft leading up into darkness lay Grall, just beginning to stir from unconsciousness, the faint memory of a fight in some gambling den coming to the surface.

Grall's skull pounded like a war drum beaten by some spiteful god, the ache pulling him from the black haze of oblivion. Cold stone bit into his back, unyielding and damp, carrying the musty tang of earth and forgotten rot that clawed at his nostrils. He groaned, a low rumble echoing off the walls, as fragments of memory surfaced, fists flying in a smoky den, ale-soaked laughter turning to snarls, and then...nothing. Just the sharp crack of betrayal, maybe a club to the head. His massive frame shifted, muscles coiling like serpents under sun-kissed skin, already slick with a faint sheen of sweat from the exertion of merely waking.

[i]Curse these fools,[/i] he thought, blue eyes snapping open to pierce the gloom. The corridor stretched before him, lit by that eerie glowing moss clinging to the stones like festering wounds. No bars, no guards, just a shaft yawning upward into endless dark, and the faint scuff of footsteps nearby. His pointed ears twitched, catching the subtle rasp of breath, the whisper of leather on stone. Someone else stirred in this pit. Friend or foe? Didn't matter yet. Grall's hands flexed, instinctively reaching for the hilts of Frostbite and Thunderhoof, but they were gone, stripped away, along with his ruby belt and his bull-horn headdress. Rage simmered in his gut, hot and familiar, but he tamped it down; for now. After all, the didn't take his fists or the small blades tucked into his boots when they took his weapons, leaving him a step ahead.

Scars etched across his herculean physique pulled taut as he scanned the shadows, spotting a figure moving cautiously down the hall, a wiry sort, dagger in hand, creeping like a fox in a trap. Grall's lips curled in a feral grin. "You there," his voice boomed, deep and resonant, cutting through the dim like a blade. "Waking in the same filth, are we? What devil's game is this?" He took a wide stance, veins bulging like ropes across his colossal arms, ready for whatever crawled out of the dark.

The low voice startled Bart, making him turn towards the disturbance and prepare his weapon. His eyes, accustomed by now to the dimness of the surroundings, captured a vision of a gargantuan man standing several feet from him. The mind immediately went back to searching through faces of people the elf has cheated last night - but from what he remembered the giant wasn't participating in the game. The dagger holding hand lowered itself as well - even if this was one of his enemies, Bart was ill equipped to deal with him in any kind of confrontation. The only reliable weapon would be his own tongue, that got him out of so many troubles, and got him into an equal amount. "I don't know, my knowledge of this kingdom's prisons is lacking. And I wasn't really keen on acquiring more experience in that" the dark haired man replied, stepping a bit closer towards the stranger to show a level of trust - but also leaving enough of a gap in case swift escape is needed.

Grall's piercing blue eyes narrowed at the wiry figure's approach, the elf's dark hair catching faint glimmers from the luminescent moss like shadows dancing on water. The man's words slithered out clever and quick, a tongue like a serpent's flick, but Grall caught the wariness in that step forward. Trust offered with one hand, escape plotted with the other. [i]Smart[/i], he reckoned, in a place like this where the air hung heavy with damp rot and the distant drip of water echoed like mocking laughter. His own massive frame loomed, muscles rippling under scarred, sun-kissed skin that already gleamed with a light sweat from the underground space biting at him, pointed ears twitching to catch any hidden threats in the gloom.

[i]Not one of the brawlers from the den,[/i] Grall mused, the fog of his awakening clearing just enough to sift through blurry memories, no, this one smelled of cards and cunning, not the brute ale-stink of those fools who'd jumped him. He rolled his broad shoulders, feeling the absence of his greatswords like missing limbs, but his fists clenched anyway, veins bulging like twisted roots across his herculean arms. "Prisons?" Grall rumbled, voice deep as a cavern's growl, echoing off the stone. "This reeks of deeper rot. No bars, no sky, some trapper's pit, maybe, or worse." He took a single, ground-shaking step closer, closing half the gap with a wide stance that screamed dominance, yet his gaze held no immediate threat, just a predator's curiosity. "You fight in that den last night? Or just cheat your way to this hole?" A faint, feral grin tugged at his lips, blond braids swaying as he tilted his head, waiting to see if the elf's tongue would weave truth or more clever lies.

"I don't fight unless forced to. As for cheating.. the worst part is they didn't even catch me. What's the point of stacking the deck in your favour when your opponents are guardsmen that just so happened to go through a mandatory armour polishing as of yesterday. Their cards were there for anyone with eyesight to see. Well, with very good eyesight" Bart replied with theatrical roll of his eyes. Deep within he was quite uncomfortable standing to a warrior clearly surpassing him in any fighting abilities, but his trade was in lying and deceit - and deceiving yourself is even easier than deceiving others. Although fear wasn't the only emotion the monolithic figure was stirring within him. 

The tumbling of rocks in the distance made Bart's head turn. Wherever they were, they weren't alone - and whatever dangers lied within this dungeon were definitely easier to deal with when you have some.. or a lot of muscle behind your back. "What's your name, partner?" he asked, sheathing the dagger and offering a handshake.

Grall's chuckle rumbled low, like distant thunder rolling through the cavern, as the elf spun his tale of clever cheats and polished armor glinting like fool's gold. The words hung in the damp air, thick with the scent of moss and stale earth, and Grall's pointed ears perked at the theatrical eye-roll, catching the undercurrent of unease in the man's stance. [i]Cunning little fox,[/i] he thought, blue eyes glinting in the dim glow, sizing up the wiry frame that screamed rogue more than warrior, yet here they both were, dumped in this godsforsaken hole. Fear flickered in those dark eyes, sure, but something else too, admiration, maybe, or the spark of intrigue that made Grall's own blood stir just a touch warmer. He didn't miss how the elf's gaze lingered on his herculean physique, muscles etched with scars and already sheening faintly with sweat from the underground chill biting at his sun-kissed skin.

Then came the tumble of rocks, a grating [i]clatter[/i] echoing from the shadows ahead, like bones rattling in a grave, snapping Grall's focus sharp. His colossal frame tensed, veins bulging like knotted ropes across his broad chest and arms, instincts howling of beasts or worse lurking in the dark. The elf sheathed his blade, extended a hand, smart move, allying with muscle in a pit like this. Grall's feral grin widened, and he clasped the offered grip in his massive paw. Firm, but not crushing, the contact sending a jolt of raw energy through him. "Grall," he growled, voice deep and primal, resonating off the stone walls. "The Monstrous, some call me. And you, sharp-eyes? What's your stake in this mess, before whatever's scraping those rocks comes calling?" He released the handshake but lingered close, wide stance planting him like an unmovable oak, ready to charge into the gloom if need be, his blond braids swaying as he nodded toward the distant noise.

Bart was prepared for painful handshake, but Grall seemed to know well when to use more or less power. "So not just a dumb brute.. that's good" the elf thought to himself, while also contemplating the subject of names. He had a lot of them - both due to being an elf and due to being a con man. But right here and now lying would only bring more problems to him, so he gave the closest thing to truth he could tell to strangers. "You can call me Bart. Shorter and easier to pronounce than the full elven version" he replied, eyes still fixated on the new acquaintance but the intensity and readiness for conflict was slowly draining from them. "As for stake - I just was using the tavern to replenish my empty purse while travelling. This town doesn't have enough going for it to scheme for more - although I guess if that was the case they'd have a conventional prison.."

He turned back towards the unexplored exit from the hall when the clanking sound repeated itself, which gave Grall a better look at his profile and figure. While the physique was nowhere near as built, it was also not a slender untrained body of someone with silver spoon in his mouth from birth - several whip scars were seen on the shoulders while marks from some rope or shackles marked the wrists.

Grall's grip lingered a heartbeat longer on Bart's hand, the elf's skin cooler than expected against his own callused palm, rough from years of wielding blades and wrestling beasts. [i]Bart,[/i] he echoed inwardly, the name simple as a thrown stone, fitting for one who danced with lies and shadows rather than charging headlong into the fray. The elf's eyes softened, losing that edge of readiness, and Grall felt a flicker of something akin to kinship in this forsaken pit, where the air clung heavy with the dank bite of mold and the faint, metallic tang of old blood seeping from cracks in the stone. Not a dumb brute, eh? The thought amused him, a low huff escaping his lips, but he kept it buried; no need to tip his hand yet.

As Bart turned toward the unexplored hall, the clanking repeated—a harsh [i]clang[/i] like chains dragging over rock, closer now, stirring the hairs on Grall's pointed ears. His blue eyes traced the elf's profile in the dim moss-light, noting the lean but hardened build, not some pampered waif but marked by life's crueler edges: whip scars lacing those shoulders like faded lightning, and the telltale chafes on wrists from bindings long past. [i]Survived his own battles,[/i] Grall mused, respect stirring in his chest alongside a primal curiosity, his own scars pulling taut across his massive, sweat-sheened torso as he shifted. "Bart it is," he rumbled, voice deep and steady, cutting through the gloom like a blade through fog. "Traveler's luck turned sour, same as mine. But those marks on you—whips and chains—tell a tale louder than words. Escaped worse pits than this?" He stepped up beside the elf, his colossal frame dwarfing the other, muscles flexing fluidly under sun-kissed skin, ready for whatever abomination clawed its way from the dark. "Come on, then. That racket's no friendly welcome. Stick close, and we'll carve a path out—or die swinging."

"Well, you don't get good at deceit immediately. Takes some getting caught before you can learn where the edge you should stick to is" Bart replied, stepping to the side and then shuffling backwards, letting Grall take the lead. He wasn't keen on running headfirst into danger either, especially now that someone a lot sturdier could do that for him. "As for escaping pits - usually it is through picking locks on doors and hearts. Which I don't think would work on a fella like this" he continued, as the silouette of a shambling ghoul in chains appeared in the archway. Its eyes noticed the couple and flashed, but no attack has followed. Instead the undead turned around and proceeded to retreat into the same corridor it just emerged from. "Think he is trying to lure us in or showing the way towards exit? Or perhaps his master?"

Grall's lips twisted in a wry smirk at Bart's quip, the elf's words slithering through the dank air like smoke from a dying fire, laced with that self-deprecating edge that spoke of hard-learned lessons in shadows and slip-ups. [i]Picked locks on hearts, huh?[/i] he pondered, the notion stirring a faint amusement in his gut, even as the chill of the stone seeped into his bare feet, carrying the acrid whiff of decay that thickened with every echoing [i]clank[/i] from the archway ahead. Bart shuffled back, yielding the lead like a fox dodging a bear's path, and Grall obliged without a word, his massive frame surging forward with a wide, dominant stance, muscles coiling under sweat-glistened skin that caught the moss's eerie glow like polished bronze. Scars and Nordic tattoos etched across his herculean build flexed with each step, pointed ears straining to catch the shambling drag of chains, the wet rasp of undead breath rattling like bones in a gale.

The silhouette emerged then, a grotesque thing of rotted flesh and iron links, eyes flashing with unholy fire that pierced the gloom, locking onto them for a heartbeat that stretched taut as a bowstring. No lunge, no snarl—just a pivot and retreat, vanishing back into the corridor's maw. Grall's veins throbbed like twisted vines across his colossal arms, rage simmering low but held in check, his blond braids swaying as he tilted his head, sniffing the fetid draft wafting from the dark. "Lure or guide, makes no difference," he growled, voice a deep rumble that vibrated the stones underfoot. "Undead don't play fair—probably some necromancer's pet, drawing us to slaughter. But sitting here's a slower death." He glanced back at Bart, blue eyes fierce yet oddly protective, a primal urge to shield this cunning stray flickering amid the chaos. "You pick locks? I'll break bones. Follow if you're game, elf, or scamper up that shaft alone."

Staying alone definitely wouldn't improve Bart's odds of getting back from the damp dungeon towards the civilization - if this backwater town could be considered civilized at all. "Lead the way then, I'll trust my faith to someone with more expertise in behavior of undead. They don't play cards, carry purses or have unrealistic aspirations that can be distorted - as such they have never been of interest to me" he replied with the same playful cadence. Which was probably not the best tone to use on a mountain of muscles with what looked like bouts of ill temper and berserker tendencies, but at the very least Grall would probably grant him a swifter death than whatever the dungeon had in store. 

The unlikely couple caught up with the zombie in the next hallway. It was a perfect copy of the previous one, except instead of Grall and Bart the cells contained nothing but rats and dirt. Similarly, another shambling ghoul emerged from the exit, this one carrying a broken rusted sword - but this time the couple of them clearly had no intention of letting anyone continue further.

Grall pressed forward into the corridor's throat, the damp chill wrapping around him like a serpent's coil, carrying the foul reek of rot and rat filth that clawed at his throat with every breath. Bart's playful jab about undead and their lack of purses drew a guttural snort from deep in his chest, the sound rough as grinding gravel, even as his pointed ears twitched at the elf's irreverent tone, foolish, maybe, to poke a beast like him, but it sparked a reluctant flicker of amusement amid the simmering rage. [i]Cheeky bastard,[/i] he thought, glancing sidelong at the wiry figure trailing just behind, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Grall's massive, sweat-sheened form.

The hallway mirrored the last, empty cells yawning like black maws filled with scurrying shadows and the high-pitched [i]squeak[/i] of rats gnawing at bones, but the first ghoul halted there, its chained form shambling to a stop as another emerged from the archway ahead, a hulking abomination clutching a rusted sword, jagged and broken like a fang torn from some forgotten beast. Their eyes gleamed with malevolent hunger, no retreat this time, just a low, gurgling hiss that echoed off the moss-lit walls as they lurched forward in unison, blocking the path with decayed menace. Grall's blood ignited, the familiar fire of rage surging through his veins, bulging like ropes across his herculean arms and broad chest, his pointed ears flattening back in predatory focus.

"Time to dance," he snarled, voice a primal thunder that shook the air, lunging with whirlwind speed despite his colossal size. He barreled into the sword-wielding ghoul first, massive fist slamming into its jaw with a sickening [i]crack[/i], bone shattering like dry twigs under the force, sending the creature staggering back, rusty blade clattering uselessly against stone. The chained one swung wildly, iron links whipping through the fetid air with a [i]whirr[/i], grazing Grall's shoulder and drawing a hot line of blood that only fueled his fury, muscles flexing fluidly into a storm of raw power. He grabbed the chain mid-swing, yanking hard, pulling the undead off-balance and into his knee, which drove upward like a battering ram into its gut with a wet [i]thud[/i], ribs splintering. Fists made quick work of the bones, shattering them into powder as he punched with every ounce of strength brought from that massive body. The two skeletons didn't stand a chance, already a pile of fully dead bone shards and powder while the half-giant panted hard from his exertion.

"Love when the work is done without me even having to lift a finger" Bart noted after observing the professional in action. He didn't even bother pulling out both of the daggers - it was a poor weapon for dealing with undead and getting it dirty with ghoul intesines would at most been a mild inconvenience. Wrinkling his nose he quickly rummaged the unmoving piles for any useful items. The sword seemed beyond repair for actual battle and the ghouls didn't wear any armour, but one of them did have a key ring with several keys attached - most rusted and barely holding together, one surprisingly firm and made from wrought iron. "I think the rest are from the cell doors, but since all the door hinges have rusted away nobody bothered actually locking them" the elf showed the findings to his winded up partner before straightening up and looking into the next passage.

Grall stood there amid the wreckage, chest heaving like a bellows in a forge, the metallic tang of blood and rot thick on his tongue, mingling with the salty bite of his own sweat that now poured freely down his sun-kissed skin, making his herculean muscles gleam in the moss's sickly light like oiled marble under strain. The ghouls lay in shattered heaps, bones ground to dust under his colossal fists, the air still humming with the echo of that final [i]crunch[/i] as he'd pulverized the last skull, veins throbbing wild across his broad shoulders and arms, a fresh gash on his shoulder weeping red but already clotting, the pain just fuel to the fire smoldering in his gut. [i]Pathetic sacks of decay,[/i] he thought, wiping a massive hand across his brow, blond braids matted and swaying as he shook off the adrenaline's rush, pointed ears still ringing from the frenzy.

Bart's quip cut through the haze, light as a thief's step, drawing a low, rumbling laugh from Grall's throat, rough and edged with lingering fury. "Work's never done, elf," he growled, voice deep as cavern thunder, eyeing the wiry figure rummaging through the mess without a speck of gore on him. Smart, staying back, letting the storm do its thing. He watched Bart fish out the key ring, those rusted relics jangling like forgotten promises, and that one sturdy iron key catching the dim glow, solid as a vow. Grall stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over the elf, the heat from his exerted body radiating like a furnace, close enough to catch the faint scent of whatever road-worn leather clung to Bart's clothes. "Cells or no, that iron one's got purpose," he rumbled, nodding toward the passage ahead, where shadows twisted deeper into the unknown, carrying a draft that whispered of more foulness lurking. "I can lead, though stay close in case more come up behind us," he added, already fully in the protective role, despite knowing nothing about the other man.