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Snippet #2815618

located in Zoltia, a part of The Gala-Dor Expedition, one of the many universes on RPG.

Zoltia

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Hilgur Black-Mane Character Portrait: Dreador Character Portrait: Iz'Hana Daudol
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The southern Arc-en-Lume watchtower. One of the capital’s many holding cells laid here, beneath the floors upon floors of barracks. Here, under the dim, crackling torchlights and the incessant rattle of chains and shackles, the city’s many thieves, thugs, and other miscreants remained. Some awaited trial. Others hoped for bail or pardon. All, however, longed for freedom. Freedom from the rusted, blood-scented chains. From the stale, dusty air. From the possibility of a worse fate within the Siren’s Epitaph, Beaucourt’s most fortified prison, secluded deep within the western mountain range.

The sound of footsteps drew Iz’Hana’s ears. The bright yellow glow of a lantern peered down the spiral staircase just across his cell. His keen huntsman’s senses recognised these sounds. The familiar, metallic clink and clank of the guards’ steel sabatons, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps, one with shorter, slower strides than the other.

The faceless armet of one guard looked straight at Iz’Hana. “Hey, Darkie. We’ve got a friend for ya.” The other guard cackled and dragged the bound form of a drow woman down the stairs, across the cobblestone floor, and in front of Iz’Hana’s cell. The first guard unlocked the door, and the second tossed the woman inside.

Thud!

Her lanky body rolled over the dust thrice over. The guards shut the door, and began to move along with their second prisoner - a stout dwarf, dressed in tattered rags, with beard and eyes as black as ink. “Guards, wait!” He shouted. The guards humoured him. The dwarf shuffled towards the drow woman, his arms bound behind his back and secured by the second guard. ”Don’t celebrate just yet,” he spoke, his voice a calm, low warning. ”The Sacred Flame are lookin’ through my room in the Jackalope this very moment. It’s only a matter of time.”

She spat through the bars, spraying it through her teeth and over his face like a snake spitting venom. “Inbau aturr ulu l’maerch, gorra’h,” she hissed, unable to hold back the laugh in her voice.

Hilgur bared his wide, block-like teeth, his face contorted with layers of wrinkles set by rage. ”NOBODY CAN STOP MY EXPEDITION!” “Alright, that’s enough,” The first guard decided, and dragged a screaming, squirming, incensed Hilgur away, deeper into the dungeons.

A flash of white darted across her dark face. As she turned around, she disposed of her grin, flicking her gaze over to the shadow in the corner. They were hers, with ashen skin and pale eyes more fitting of their kind. A short rolling of her tongue left her lips instinctively, ending on an inflection. A question. Then she frowned, remembering something, and tossed her head without waiting for an answer, slinking towards the other corner.

Zoltian drow. They weren’t hers.