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You give up struggling and take as good a napp as you can.
You wake when you're hauled up. The sack is turned about, inspected for damage on the move, heaped onto the back of an animal.
Smells like horse. Mare.
No speaking you can hear.
The galloping is a little muffled, slower than it can be. You suppose it might be a pony, not a war horse.
It doesn't take long for you to be handed over. For sure you smell iron: lots of it.
A short whispered conversation later, your sack is dunked repeatedly into a horse trough; emptied, refilled, dunked again.
You get your gulps in.
While you're still sputtering the sack is suddenly cut open and a mess of light is shoved in your face Dancing Lights cantrip. It disorients you just enough for Y-headed iron stikk to hold your neck against the ground.
Iron shackles made for Human wrists are fitted on your ankles. When you try to struggle you get bonked.
Your hands get chained, a heavy padlock put through the links, latched; another padlock hooks through the leg shackles, then the padlock on your hands, latched.
The air around you is now thick with mineral oil and leather polish. The ground that you can feel is cold, rough, solid.
Stone.
Now that you are fully secured, they feel safe enough to take a shrubclipper to your tuckeroos.
They are disgusted at what they find; you get another cold rise in the crotch, and another. There's a whispered protest that water's not cutting it, and a whispered growl about protocol.
Finally they fill a leaky tin pail with moar water, and throw a small piece of laundry soap at you.
"Wash your cock."
At the threat of bonk you do as you're told. You do your best, at least.
They give up on you before you do: the bucket is taken away, and something else is thrust at your face: a copper toob. There's a receptacle under it: a big wood tankard. Smellz hott n yum-yum.
Bready muttony.
"Soup. 30 seconds."
You slurp, burn your lips and meof, slurp moar, hurriedly, reaching the bottom just as his count ends.
A big piece of bread is offered, crammed in when you open your mouth: salted hard loaf, stale. With your mouth helpfully wedged, your captors bind it with a banditchief, muffling you.
Then you are hooded with a dark cloth hood, drawstring closed and tied.
You are moar fukt than before, but at least you're no longer hungry or thirsty.
You go to sleep again.
>All gen pen removed.
>Interrogation begins in 20 hrs.
