This post was inspired by a writing prompt in the Worldbuilding Community - Worldbuilding Prompt #1012 - Prison Graffiti.
Enjoy !
Wilbur kicked and screamed as the guards threw him into the cell.
"Why are you doing this ! I haven't done anything wrong !"
The two guards laughed. They were greasy overweight fellows, clearly not even up to being city watchmen, and the watch were hardly elite soldiers. Their uniforms, if you could call them that, consisted of filthy black surcoats over grubby gambesons. The only clue that they had any official standing was the yellow wheel insignia of the city of Magoran on the left breast of each surcoat.
As the heavy barred door slammed shut, the last thing Wilbur heard was one guard saying to the other, "What makes him think this is about him ? We don't need a crime to pick someone up."
Then the key turned, the lock clunked into place with a sound that signified absolute finality, and he was alone.
The cell was filthy, damp and dark. A small barred window allowed a little of the grey winter light in, and seemed to suck any warmth out of the place. He shivered.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he started to see markings on the stones of the wall. Mostly they were collections of scratches indicating the passing of time to previous residents. Some were depressingly long. There were a few names scratched into the wall. Then one caught his eye.
All the other markings were scratched into the stone, shallow grooves maybe made with belt buckles or the back end of a spoon. But this one was written in brown ink. It took a while for Wilbur to realise it wasn't ink; it was very old dried blood.
All it said was, "Don't eat the stew".
He wondered what it meant, and the thought circled around in his head with increasing trepidation. He had little else to think about. Just the stew, and trying to work out what he'd done wrong to end up here.
But when the door opened a few hours later, and the guards dumped a bowl of stew on the floor, it's unappetising look and sour stench made the warning seem only too right. Wilbur's stomach turned at the stink; there was no way he was going to eat that.
So in the morning the door opened and after giving Wilbur a few hard kicks the guards took the uneaten bowl away. "You'll eat it sooner or later," the more bloated of the two said with a grim laugh.
For two more days this was repeated, as hunger started to gnaw at Wilbur's belly. He could sate his thirst by licking the almost frozen condensation off the cell window's iron bars, but there was nothing to eat; not even any rats to try to catch.
The fourth time the door opened for a bowl of disgusting stew to be delivered, Wilbur couldn't help himself. Steeling his nerve once the guards had gone, he dipped the wooden spoon into the stinking tepid mess. It tasted as bad as it looked and smelled. But it was food, something to fill his knotted empty stomach. He couldn't bring himself to eat it all, but he swallowed all the grey meat it contained and left the rest.
An hour later, the pain started. His stomach started complaining; grumbling, churning, feeling like a lead weight was congealing inside it. Banging on the cell door frantically, Wilbur called for the guards, but no-one came. Sobbing in agony, he collapsed to the floor, curled into a ball and hoping the pain would subside if he waited it out long enough.
When the cell door finally opened in the morning, the guards looked in and grinned to each other and the cell's solitary occupant.
Sitting on the floor and gnawing a shin bone from the human skeleton scattered around the room was a plump, naked grey-green troll.
"Welcome back, Thongrim-Troll," a guard said. "I told Cerdin here that a bit of warmth and a good meal of human flesh would give that old regeneration process of yours a kick start. It was his idea to stick a few bits of you in the stew."