He had memorized every groove in that chain--every irregularity, every notch, even the 
lengths of each link. He did this because he couldn't sleep. This wasn't because he was kept 
awake; rather, it was because he literally could not sleep. It was not a metabolic function of 
his race. Sure, he could appear to do so, or even set himself into a self-induced coma of some 
kind, but that wasn't particularly wise, considering the danger he was in.
	So he remained awake and alert. It helped to have something to do. It was an old-wives' 
tale that if a venmar elf remained idle for too long, he'd go mad; certainly the fable arose 
from their lack of the need to sleep, but it was not entirely mythical. The venmar WOULD go mad 
if they remained unoccupied. Other races alleviated this by sleeping, but because his race could 
not do so, they had to remain busy. If he did not meticulously memorize the chain he was bound 
to, he too would lose his sanity. That was why he was in here.
	They were trying to break him.
	A thought ran through his mind--perhaps it was time to try now. They would not expect it 
now. They would be lax after his two weeks of capture. They would think that he would soon be a 
slack-jawed lunatic on the floor. They would be unprepared for his guile.
	The chain held his left hand slightly below his head. Getting something into it would be 
quite difficult, but possible. He glanced down at his left leg, or rather, where his left leg 
should have been. The metallic replacement that he had for his useless, crippled left leg lay 
gray in his fuzzy overscan vision. Through his left eye he could see nothing useful, but through 
his modified right eye, he got a picture that was both a heat distribution and a distance 
display/motion detector. His leg did not appear to be damaged--something that he took great care 
to make sure of when they were beating him.
	Pulling himself up the wall using only his left arm (his right had been detached over 
two weeks ago), he was slowly able to pull his torso and left leg up high enough so that his 
left thigh was near his tightly-clenched fist. He used his right leg for balance as, ever so 
slowly, he moved his tensed arm over the top of his thigh. He pressed a switch with the knuckle 
of his index finger. There was a click, and then a whirr. Something slid out of the outside of 
his thigh, in a little bracket. He grabbed it, and, unable to support his weight any longer, 
tumbled back to his feet.
	He now held a small, light, hiltless dagger in his left hand. Manipulating it between 
his fingers, he moved handle over the back of his hand and clenched the blade between his index 
and middle fingers. Then he looked back up at the chain, beginning to memorize it again, while 
he waited.

				*	*	*	*

	He didn't have to wait long, only about eighteen hours or so. They were due to feed him 
for this week, and the jailkeeper was prompt, if nothing else.
	There was a click as of a key sliding into a lock and tripping the mechanism. Rhys let 
himself fall limp and rolled his eye back into its socket, giving his face a vacant look with 
the aid of a slack jaw and a bit of drool. With a creak, the door opened.
	"Here now, what's this?"
	Footsteps, coming closer. A light source, probably a lantern, was set down beside him.
	"The madness finally get you, eh lad? Heh heh heh..."
	A rough arm, under his armpit, dragged his limp body into a semblance of a standing 
position. A hand under his jaw, shaking his head.
	"Nothing, eh? How about this."
	He was struck in the side of the face with a punch. His head lolled over to his other 
shoulder.
	"Yep, he's gone."
	The figure turned it's back, beginning to bend down to get the lantern. In a flash, Rhys 
reversed the blade into his palm and drove it downward with all his might. Had the figure been 
shorter, this might not have worked--it might have done less damage or missed entirely. 
Unfortunately for the jailkeeper, however, he was tall, taller than Rhys. The blade sank up to 
the handle, directly into the elf's metal-and-bone skull. There was a hissing, a popping, and a 
whirring sound, and the corpse fell to the floor, along with the keys.
	Rhys manipulated the keys with his feet, catching the ring between his feet. He managed 
to get the keys on top of his boot, when he then tried to toss the ring into his hand. It took 
him three tries. Then, of course, it took a few minutes to manipulate it in his hand and to 
choose the right key. Inevitably, the clasp fell away, and he was free of the accursed chain.
	With the methodical deliberateness that was the hallmark of his race, he rolled over the 
dead body and began unclasping the right arm from the socket where it was attached. By some 
lucky coincidence, this one had two replacement arms, and Rhys would need one of them to get 
out of this place.
	After a minute or two, the arm was free, and he placed it in the empty socket in his 
right arm. He clasped it on and flexed his new hand--it was powerful, he could tell. With a 
mental command, a twelve inch blade sprung out of a hidden sheathe behind his wrist.
	Yes, this would be QUITE useful.