Elf Prince Goes To Prison Part 1 -futa- -sleepy-b-

In the enchanted realm of El'goroth, where the sun dipped into the horizon and painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold, Prince Arin found himself entangled in a web of deceit and power struggles. A prince known for his wisdom, bravery, and unrivaled magical prowess, Arin was not one to back down from a challenge. However, his latest endeavor would lead him down a path he never expected.

The accusations came as a shock to Arin. Accused of treason against the realm, of plotting to overthrow the very monarchy he was a part of, Arin was given a sentence that seemed as unjust as it was severe: life imprisonment in the dreaded Ironwood Prison.

Ironwood was a place of dark legend, a fortress built on a craggy island that floated on a sea of perpetual mist. The prison was guarded by ancient magic and enchanted creatures, making escape a fantasy. Few who entered ever left.

As Arin stood before the judge, a wise old Elf named Eriol, he proclaimed his innocence. "Your Honor, I swear upon the ancient oaks and the spirits of our ancestors, I am innocent. There must be some mistake."

But Eriol's expression was grim. "The evidence, Prince Arin, is clear. You have been found guilty by the Council of Elders. Your fate is sealed."

The guards moved to take Arin into custody, leading him away from the light of the sun and into the darkness of his new reality. His cellmate, a towering figure with skin as black as coal and eyes that seemed to see right through him, was named Kael. Kael had been in Ironwood for years, accused of a crime he too claimed not to have committed.

The initial days in prison were harsh for Arin. The Elf Prince, used to the finest silks and the comfort of his palace, had to adjust to the hard stone and the iron bars. His thoughts often drifted to his family and his people, wondering how they could believe him capable of such treachery.

One evening, as guards made their rounds, a Sleepy-B (a term used for guards known for their sometimes lethargic demeanor, possibly due to late nights or lack of interest) came to their cell. Guard Breson, or Sleepy-B as the inmates called him, was notorious for sometimes turning a blind eye, provided you were quiet and didn't cause trouble.

Arin noticed that Guard Breson seemed particularly disinterested one night as he approached their cell. With a tilt of his head, the guard let slip a small piece of parchment with a cryptic message scrawled on it: "Look to the east wing for your chance."

The message intrigued Arin. What could it mean? Was it a hint towards an escape, or something more?

As Arin began to ponder the message, Kael spoke up, his deep voice low. "The east wing is where the notorious ones are kept. The ones the realm fears." Elf Prince Goes to Prison Part 1 -FUTA- -Sleepy-B-

"Fears?" Arin echoed.

"Yes," Kael replied. "Those who have been locked away for their power, their threat to the stability of El'goroth. If Breson wants you to look there...he might be suggesting an ally."

The tale of Arin's imprisonment and potential escape plan had just begun. With mysteries to unravel, alliances to form, and a realm to clear his name in, the Elf Prince embarked on a journey within the cold stone walls of Ironwood, where the line between truth and deceit was blurred, and survival was the ultimate goal.

The transport was called The Lullaby.

A cruel name, Laeron thought, for a vessel that stank of rust, sweat, and despair. He was stripped of his silks, his crown of holly and bone, and given a jumpsuit the color of bruised plums. The other prisoners—thirty-seven of them, mostly humans, two orcs, one broken dryad—did not look at him. They had learned that looking at an elf was like looking at a solar flare. It damaged something soft inside you.

But Laeron looked at them.

He catalogued every scar, every tremor, every hidden shiv carved from toothbrush handles. This was not his first prison. He had spent a decade in a Celestial Oubliette for stealing a star. He had been frozen in a Fae-touched glacier for insulting a Winter Queen. But those were his people’s prisons—places of riddles, metamorphosis, and cruel beauty.

This was human justice. Which meant it was simply cruelty without art.

A creature lumbered down the central aisle. Seven feet tall, broad as an anvil, with skin the color of dried blood and a hormonal crest that marked it as...

“FUTA,” the dryad whispered next to him. Her name was Kaelen, and she had been reduced to a single sprouting twig behind her ear. “Ferro-Ultrathic guard. They’re bred in vats. No gender, no mercy, no sleep. Just contract. Don’t look it in the eyes.” In the enchanted realm of El'goroth, where the

Laeron looked.

The FUTA guard stopped. Its face was a mask of smooth, porous stone with two vents for breath and a single vertical slit where eyes should have been. It tilted its head. A sound emerged, like rocks grinding in a deep well. Then it spoke, in a voice that was neither male nor female, but the vibration of a collapsing mine.

“Faeling 001. You have been flagged for ‘High-Value Dream Anomaly.’ Report to Sublevel C on arrival.”

“I don’t dream,” Laeron said truthfully. Elves don’t dream. They rehearse memories.

The guard’s vertical slit widened. A thin, oily mist leaked out. “You will.”

His cell was six feet by eight feet. A cot. A hole. A single slit window that showed the yellow bruise of the gas giant below. No mirrors. No glass. Nothing sharp.

But they had given him a book.

It lay on the pillow. Leather-bound. Old. The title was embossed in a language that predated the mortal tongue: The Confessions of a Silenced Harp.

Laeron opened it. The pages were blank.

He laughed. A hollow, beautiful sound that echoed down the corridor. “You want me to write my own confession,” he said to the ceiling camera. “You want the elf prince to admit that he was wrong to seduce your kings, to unmake your treaties, to plant thorns in your thrones.” His cell was six feet by eight feet

The speaker crackled. A human voice, weary and old: “No, Prince. We want you to fall asleep.”

He refused for the first three nights. He meditated. He recited the Long Elegy of the Sundered Root, which takes 40 hours to complete. But on the fourth night, his eyelids grew heavy. The collar grew warm. And the Somni-V parasite, a microscopic thing shaped like a weeping willow, unspooled its tendrils into his hippocampus.

He dreamed.

Three days of interstellar folding later, the ship shuddered into orbit above a planet that had no name, only a designation: Sleepy-B.

From the viewport, it looked like a lidded eye. A world of perpetual twilight, wrapped in bands of opaque gas that filtered out all but the faintest, sickly yellow light. The prison complex was not on the surface. It was in the atmosphere—a floating honeycomb of obsidian and iron, suspended by massive heat balloons that leaked flame.

“B is for ‘Biological,’” Kaelen explained as they were herded into a decontamination tube. “A is for ‘Astral’ (that’s where they send the psions). C is for ‘Chemical’ (alchemists, poisoners). But B? B is for sleepers. Dreamers. People whose crimes are so… internal that the only punishment is to turn their own minds against them.”

Laeron’s collar pulsed. A map lit up in his peripheral vision. He had a cell. A schedule. A meal plan. And a mandatory “Dream Rec” period of 14 hours per cycle.

“I do not need sleep,” he insisted to a robotic intake drone.

The drone paused. Its single red eye flickered. “Correction: You do not need sleep because your fae biology runs on a different metabolic pathway. However, the Ferro-Ultrathic collar has introduced a synthetic neuro-parasite. Designation: Somni-V. You will now need sleep. You will now dream. And in those dreams, you will face the victim’s tribunal.”

For the first time in six hundred years, Laeron felt a cold trickle of something unfamiliar. Not fear. Uncertainty.