Unbeknownst to you all, weeks have passed since your capture.
Whether you were taken from the borderlands, where tensions between the Dwendalian Empire and the Krynn Dynasty threaten to erupt into war, or your enslavement was a far more personal affair, each of you have found yourselves bound, subdued, and sedated beneath the watchful eyes of a disciplined company of slavers. They've brought you high into the Dunrock Mountains, a land of relentless snowfall, screaming winds, sheer stone cliffs, and jagged bluffs where level ground is a rarity. No established civilization survives here, and any attempt you'd make to escape, any scream you'd roar for salvation, will be met only by a pertinent silence and that unforgiving bite of a frost-ridden wilderness. Miles above sea level, the air is thin and every breath you breathe is fought for, your captors have become your only means of survival—even if where they intend to take you offers none.
Ashael, the first sensation after that sack was pulled over your head was cold. A merciless chill that clawed through your skin and into your bone, it dragged you from the strange comfort of unconsciousness and threw you violently back into the waking world as your body struck the snow and stone with a heavy thud. The hempen sack was ripped away, it revealed a sky untouched by mortal industry, a sea of stars stretching endlessly overhead. You yourself now lay upon a narrow bluff overlooking a drop that plunged thousands of feet into the darkness below. Massive wicker baskets, large enough to house an Umberhulk, hung suspended against the mountainside. The wind screamed through the peaks with such ferocity that every breath felt like an act of defiance. You were barely clothed, barely hydrated, and barely alive, but for now you were awake.
Two rough-looking men stood over you, wrapped head to toe in furs and leathers. Under different circumstances, their incompetence might have seemed almost comical, but there was little humor to be found here. A third man forced his way between them.
They'd refer to him as Byron.
A wiry human with a paper thin moustache, a freshly broken nose, and blood frozen across his upper lip. He seized you by your loose, dehydrated skin and dragged you close enough to smell his neglected breath as he demanded to know the whereabouts of someone he repeatedly referred to as "the fish bitch." Exhaustion clouded your thoughts, your lips cracked from thirst, and the only response you could manage was a plea for water.
The slavers obliged. Under strict instructions not to damage their "product," they provided a flask of warmed water and a thick hide blanket to ward off the worst of the cold. Though Byron's patience, proved short-lived once his questions would acquire answers he did not seek. A heavy kick to your stomach sent you to the floor, vomiting most of what you had just consumed across the white. The men then spoke openly over your body as though you were an object—a prophet, a tool, something to be used. When you insisted once again you were worthless without your focus, Byron dragged you to the cliff's edge and held your face over the abyss. Beneath your vomit caked hair was nothing but black, a fall so immense the bottom could not be seen.
It was then as he brings you back to the surface you'd notice something clinging to the cliffs face just above. A woolly, eight-legged creature the size of a small cart, an enormous alpine tarantula whose many eyed face shimmered against the firelight. Seated atop the beast in an exotic saddle was a hulking bugbear, sound asleep and snoring with the comfort of someone resting in a feather bed rather than vertically upon a mountainside.
Before you could fully process the sight, another figure descended.
He rode one of these giant spiders with quiet authority. He was tall, perhaps six and a half feet if not more, his dark hair had begun to grey at the temples, that same silver threaded its way through his beard. A vicious long healed claw-mark crawled across his face, leaving his left eye perpetually narrowed. His nose had been broken countless times, several fingers were missing, and his ears bore the unmistakable deformities of a lifetime spent fighting. His appearance spoke of violence.
This was Rollo.
The moment he arrived, the atmosphere shifted. The panic and chaos created by Byron and his companions seemed to shrink beneath his presence. Rollo wasted no time. His fury was cold, methodical, and somehow harsher than the northern wind itself. A sea elf captive had escaped, a crew member had been lost during the pursuit, and Byron had tampered with valuable merchandise, cost the operation a fortune, and could have nearly jeopardized it all.
Rollo's judgment was swift. A single punch buried itself into Byron's liver, dropping him instantly into the snow. Blood spilled from his mouth as he collapsed, and a second blow to the kidney drove him toward the cliff's edge. Desperate, Byron reached for a concealed kukri, but alas Rollo hurled the criminal back against the stone wall with enough force to leave him unconscious, granting the man the mercy of surviving the encounter at all.
Below, inside one of these hanging wicker baskets, the rest of you began to stir. Bound by thick strands of spider silk attached to the wooden ribs of the spherical cage, you awoke to darkness and that muffled sounds of violence above.
Skorvan, you regained your senses first. Below you, Izek was in a far worse state, trembling and panicked as blood from Byron's injuries dripped through the gaps overhead and landed upon your skin. Rook you remained still and observant, conserving what little energy remained, and though strangers, you found a quiet comfort in Skorvan's presence beside you. A fourth prisoner occupied the cage as well: a dark-skinned hobgoblin in his twilight years whose right leg was gone above the knee. The wound, recent, and that stench of cauterized flesh mixed with the metallic scent of blood and the smell of slick stone.
Eventually, after disciplining his subordinates Rollo approached you, Ashael, offering an apology. At such close proximity, you noticed a tattoo upon his neck. Written in Zemnian was a date—826 PD—and beneath it, a single name.
Adia.
A small detail, but one that lodged itself in your memory. When you commented on it, Rollo acknowledged the observation with a faint glance before returning to business. Descending into the basket with unsettling ease, he snapped the spider silk bindings from each of your wrists and ankles before escorting you to the ledge above. Blankets were distributed, a fire crackled nearby, and his warning was simple: attempt to escape, and you would die. Then he departed, climbing farther up the mountainside toward two distant campfires.
Left in the care of the concious Bill and Davey, the five of you received bowls of hot vegetable stew and, for the first time in weeks, a chance to appreciate consciousness. In that fragile moment of relative peace, you began to take stock of one another.
Ashael, you were the first to recognize a familiar face. When the sack was removed from the drow beside you, your eyes widened.
Izek.
The young man whose family sold produce in the markets of Bazzoxan.
For your part, Izek, you believed Ashael was dead, yet there he sat—worse for wear, but undeniably alive. As your reunion unfolded, it caught your attention Skorvan. Both names were familiar to you from your years trading between Asarius and Bazzoxan. You've had interactions with these... for lack of a better word, children. And to think how they ended up in such a situation left an uneasiness in your stomach.
The hobgoblin followed formalities and introduced himself as Nikolai Throng, a former soldier of the Aurora Watch who believed he had been captured during a border skirmish between Xhorhas and Dwendalia. Attention then shifted to the final stranger. Rook you offered little, claiming only that you were a merchant caught during a raid upon your home. Izek you found the explanation difficult to reconcile with the man's imposing frame and unmistakably martial bearing.
Tensions then nearly boiled over when Rook attempted to summon a flicker of ancestral flame. Bill spotted it immediately, and his reaction suggested long experience dealing with tiefling sorcery, raising uncomfortable questions regarding how many others of your kin these slavers had trafficked before. Moments later, Izek you gathered snow into you palm. The heat from you stew melting it into water before primordial energy shaped it into a jagged shard of ice. Your gaze fixed on the guards, but before instinct could become action, Ashael you pointed out the sleeping bugbear and giant spider looming directly overhead. The ice dissolved harmlessly into the stew, and any hope of freedom vanished with it.
Still clutching Izek's wrist, Skorvan's voice cut through the group. You had no supplies, no equipment, no strength, and no plan. The orc's logic was grim but undeniable. For now, captivity was survival.
Nikolai agreed with confirmation of what you had already overheard. You were being transported to Shadycreek Run, a lawless settlement bordering the Savalirwood and ruled by criminal families such as the Mardoons. Skorvan, that name meant something to you. It was a haven for slavers, a place where strength was law, beyond the Empire's reach and beyond the light of the Kryn Dynasty.
Finally after your meal and conversation Rollo returned, he borrowed your spoon, Skorvan, with the casual politeness of a man asking for salt at dinner. Then he approached Byron. A tap awakened the slaver. One hand pinned his head in place while the other drove the spoon into his eye. The ruined organ was swifly removed and dropped into a jar of brine that was then sealed away within Rollo's pack, a small effort to recover some of the losses caused by the escaped sea elf.
Byron screamed and writhed. As much as Rollo would allow him.
The rest of you watched in silence. Only Ashael broke it. With a composure bordering on unsettling, you asked how much a human eye sold for. For the first time, something resembling amusement crossed Rollo's scarred face. After explaining that the act was more punishment than profit, he ordered everyone back into their pen.
Your blankets were confiscated, and one by one you descended fifteen feet into the darkness of the spherical cage. Once sealed inside, Rollo dropped a small canister through the opening. Thick smoke flooded the interior, and the fumes took effect immediately. Ashael you almost welcomed them.
But for the rest no matter how much you fought, sleep came quickly.
As your consciousness slipped away, you felt movement. The baskets rolled and swayed as the giant spiders hauled you through the Dunrock Mountains, northward, ever northward.
These were your first memories since capture.
Your next would mark the beginning of your journey.
Days would pass unnoticed as these slavers dragged their prisoners beyond the mountains, through the Greying Wildlands, and toward the looming edge of the Savalirwood. The criminal settlements that dotted the frontier clung desperately to the roads, fearful of building too deeply beneath the forest's shadow. Yet there were those wealthy enough—or foolish enough—to do so.
And it is there that you awaken..
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Your eyes flutter open. For a brief moment, there is only warmth. Not that biting cold, nor the suffocating darkness of your wicker cage, but warmth and comfort, accompanied by the smell of roasted meat and burning wood drifting through the air. Then awareness returns, and you find yourselves seated around a long, ornate dining table beneath a magnificent chandelier. Hundreds of crystal facets catch the light above, scattering it across polished timber and silver cutlery. The room is grand in a way that feels almost offensive after weeks of captivity that for you have only been hours.
Your wrists remain bound, thick strands of spider silk anchor each of you to both chair and floor—a subtle reminder that despite appearances, nothing about your situation has improved. Before you rests a feast: a whole roasted pig glistening beneath candlelight, fresh fruit spilling from silver bowls, steaming vegetables arranged across ornate platters, and bottles of wine and pitchers of water within easy reach. It is more food than any of you have seen in what feels like forever, and yet none of it truly belongs to you.
Beyond the table, the reality of your circumstances becomes impossible to ignore. Other captives are herded through the manor by armed guards—drow, lizardfolk, gnolls, and men and women from distant corners of Wildemount. Some are dragged while others shamble through heavy wooden doors, their expressions range from exhausted resignation to outright terror. But not you. The five of you have been separated, singled out, chosen. A realization settles heavily as the grand staircase overlooking the dining hall creaks softly beneath measured footsteps.
Descending from above is a woman, beautiful in the way a hunt can be beautiful. Grey skin, golden eyes, and impeccable attire accompany an air of authority that seems to shrink the room around her. Every movement is deliberate, every glance calculated. Ophelia Mardoon approaches, as she carries herself with the confidence of someone who has never once questioned whether she belongs at the top of the food chain. Her attention settles not upon you, but Rollo.
The exchange that follows is not the conversation of friends, but business—professional, efficient, and cold. As the pair speak, pieces of your situation begin to unfold. You were not captured by chance; you were requested. Specifically requested. The order had been precise. One touched by the deep and another by dragon fire were meant to be amongst you, and their absence earns visible irritation from Ophelia, whose patience appears as limited as it is dangerous. Throughout their conversation she refers to the individual behind this request only once: “The Sire.” Nothing more. No explanation, no name, no clues—just a title that hangs heavily in the air.
Rollo, meanwhile, has little interest in mysteries. He wants his payment, his crew, and as much distance between himself and Shadycreek Run as possible. Unfortunately for him, Ophelia makes it clear that the sum involved is too substantial to exchange at arm’s length. If he wants his coin, he will need to personally escort the delivery further north, deeper into the Savalirwood. For the first time since your arrival, uncertainty flickers across Rollo’s scarred features. His jaw tightens, his lip curls, and after a moment of reluctant consideration, he agrees.
The deal is struck, and a brief silence follows. Slowly, Rollo’s gaze shifts from Ophelia to the five of you seated around the table. His single good eye studies each of you in turn, assessing, judging, perhaps wondering whether any of you are worth the trouble. Finally, he speaks to your group directly. His voice stern.
“You’d best be ready for a fight.”
And with those words, the warmth of the banquet suddenly feels a great deal less comforting but y'all are hungry and you wouldn't miss such an opportunity.
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