Meridith at 33 Years Old

Meridith sat upon her rump, her legs stretched out, and her arms bound to her sides by coarse rope (it might break easily). Her loose linen tunic was torn to expose one breast.

"Damn perverts." She said as the ringing of the hammer of hangover struck constantly in her brain. The Dwelf grumbled at her predicament. Too much wine with a handsome Half-Elf the night before fogged her eyes. How did she get into a ramshackle house tall enough for a full Elf? What amateur bound her?

"He is mine." Said a feminine voice in the darkness. A match flared and a liquid lamp grew bright. A woman was visible, Half-Elf,, possibly a sister. Tall and lanky with sharp bronze skin. It lightly reflected the flickering light.

A rasping sound etched itself into the ears of the tall and statuesque Dwelf Her captor dragged a whetstone over the point of a nail. Squarish in make the point was now fine.

"Return to me, he always does. Brings me some of the most delicious sport." Her face was shining in the light of the lamp as her wicked brown eyes gleamed maliciously.

A snore from the long double bed. This was a solitary fight. Meridith waited till the Half-Elf's sister turned to lay down the whetstone. With her head pounding like that of a blacksmith's tool she strained against the rough and ineffectual rope. Fiber tore as she flexed the muscles she was born with. A life of adventuring had only made her fit body even stronger than a typical Dwelf.

Meredith rose to her full height, easy with Elf tall ceilings, and grasp the vile creature by the neck. She used both hands, heard it break, and the body crumpled. She left while he snored.