[109 / 9 / ?]
Quoted By:
You wake up with a throbbing head and a funny taste in your mouth.
It takes your eyes a moment to get adjusted to the darkness of the unfamiliar surroundings. The only motes of light come from fungi on the walls, dimly glowing lichens that give the unlit masonry the look of a starlit sky, if you squint hard enough. Just enough light to see the contours of hewn stone stacked up to make the walls and ceiling, held together by their weight more than any mortar or cement. Barely enough to make sense of your surroundings, but that might be for the best.
Your nose can pick up the dour stench of rotting corpses that hangs beneath the must of a mossy cavern. Drips of water into a pool ring out like a distance chime. The air feels still, weighing down upon you like a heavy blanket that refuses to let you stir.
The cold makes you shiver. The shivers return feeling to your numb body, and with feeling comes a soreness that seeps past every muscle and into the marrow of your bones. Your arms, your legs, your head most of all, the soreness brings a pain to every inch of your body that nearly makes you cry. To say nothing of your more delicate and womanly places; your bosom feels as though it's been savaged by a tiger, and the less you say about what you feel below the belt, the better.
You swallow dryly, and shudder at the taste.
Perhaps it's for the best that you don't know where it came from. Perhaps it's for the best that you don't remember how you got here, nor why you've not a stitch of clothing on your person, nor exactly how every inch of you - inside and out - became so terribly sore. Best to put such thoughts to the back of your mind, where they cannot bother you until you're safe enough to let it all out. You went beyond the Wardenstones to pick medicinal herbs, and you now know why the elders always warned you not to, that is all.
Yes, that is all. Consequences for girlish foolishness and ignoring the wisdom of the elders. You can live with a few consequences for your stupidity, you're a woman grown. Those thoughts steel you enough to let you pull yourself out from the shelter of an overturned cart, and pick at the corpses of your captors. (Roll 1d100)
>Kobolds. Lowest danger zone, worst equipment.
>Goblins. Low danger zone, poor equipment.
>Duergar. Moderate danger zone, good equipment.
>Drow. High danger zone, excellent equipment.
>Illithid. Extreme danger zone, best equipment.
After taking the best of what you can find from corpses, you realize that your captors left you with a gift that will be very difficult for your to remove.
>A slave collar wrapped around your neck.
>Piercings in strange and delicate places.
>A brand of ownership beneath your navel.
It takes your eyes a moment to get adjusted to the darkness of the unfamiliar surroundings. The only motes of light come from fungi on the walls, dimly glowing lichens that give the unlit masonry the look of a starlit sky, if you squint hard enough. Just enough light to see the contours of hewn stone stacked up to make the walls and ceiling, held together by their weight more than any mortar or cement. Barely enough to make sense of your surroundings, but that might be for the best.
Your nose can pick up the dour stench of rotting corpses that hangs beneath the must of a mossy cavern. Drips of water into a pool ring out like a distance chime. The air feels still, weighing down upon you like a heavy blanket that refuses to let you stir.
The cold makes you shiver. The shivers return feeling to your numb body, and with feeling comes a soreness that seeps past every muscle and into the marrow of your bones. Your arms, your legs, your head most of all, the soreness brings a pain to every inch of your body that nearly makes you cry. To say nothing of your more delicate and womanly places; your bosom feels as though it's been savaged by a tiger, and the less you say about what you feel below the belt, the better.
You swallow dryly, and shudder at the taste.
Perhaps it's for the best that you don't know where it came from. Perhaps it's for the best that you don't remember how you got here, nor why you've not a stitch of clothing on your person, nor exactly how every inch of you - inside and out - became so terribly sore. Best to put such thoughts to the back of your mind, where they cannot bother you until you're safe enough to let it all out. You went beyond the Wardenstones to pick medicinal herbs, and you now know why the elders always warned you not to, that is all.
Yes, that is all. Consequences for girlish foolishness and ignoring the wisdom of the elders. You can live with a few consequences for your stupidity, you're a woman grown. Those thoughts steel you enough to let you pull yourself out from the shelter of an overturned cart, and pick at the corpses of your captors. (Roll 1d100)
>Kobolds. Lowest danger zone, worst equipment.
>Goblins. Low danger zone, poor equipment.
>Duergar. Moderate danger zone, good equipment.
>Drow. High danger zone, excellent equipment.
>Illithid. Extreme danger zone, best equipment.
After taking the best of what you can find from corpses, you realize that your captors left you with a gift that will be very difficult for your to remove.
>A slave collar wrapped around your neck.
>Piercings in strange and delicate places.
>A brand of ownership beneath your navel.
