“The enemy of my enemy awaits the victor” - Athasian Proverb.
The cessation of movement calls you to wakefulness in the gloom, though the sweltering heat of your sweatbox and a few paltry stray motes of light tell you night has not yet come calling. You aren’t sure why you’ve stopped, and it’s unlikely anyone who knew would tell you anyway.
You, and the others, have been a “guest” here, loosely roped to the floor with giant hair cords for…ages. It seems like forever, at any rate, but is probably closer to a month, if your guesses are close.
The stench of this place is unspeakable; even acknowledging it seems ill advised. They haven’t bothered removing the bodies of the one’s who did not survive the journey, just left them where they lay, shackled and rotting. Strange, for valuable slave cargo, they don’t seem to care if you live or die. Water rations have been sporadic as well. As you watch, two of the humans lick the fevered sweat from the elf’s brow (you are certain neither the elf or the avian will last another day in this place, making this the sixth day you’ve thought so). Swaying your head achingly from side to side, you can’t imagine a more diverse group of beings in the same place for anything short of slaving away at a sorcerer king’s palace.
The customary lot of humans, two of those undersized cannibal freaks (thankfully, the ever-present mindbender kept them from more than an occasional limb gnawing), a pair of mantis men (hogging the braxat’s share of the space, you might add, not that you’d want to sit next to one), a Mul (that one will fetch good coin), an elf (funny how they don’t care about their own kind, isn’t it), even one of those unusual talking bird creatures.
There had been two of them, once, the bird men; clutch mates by the look of them. They don’t fare well in close quarters, worse even than the elves who yearn to run free. When one of the provider kanks dropped dead from the arduous pace set by the slavers, they’d tried to feed it to you, and a dead kank is just this side of poisonous. It wouldn’t kill you, but eating that putrescent meat would make you wish it would. In a daze, the avian had eaten the meat, sickening it for days. The stench of its bile still hung about the place. It had weakened, finally succumbing to the heat, and they’d fed you again for the second and last time. Funny how everything new tastes like Kes’Trekel. Bewildered from confinement and feral with grief, the second birdthing had also eaten her share. No one talked much after that, not that talking was worth wasting energy on at this killing temperature.
It’s your own fault really, being here, for making a mistake. In life, there are no second chances; anyone who tells you different is a dreamer, and dreams die as easily as the fools who dream them in the Tablelands. To your credit, at least you weren’t the only one. The others here, even those that hadn’t made it this far, they’d made the exact same mistake; stopping at the elven Oasis.
Looking back, they probably didn’t even own the place, but then the ability to secure what was yours defined ownership on Athas, so maybe they did at that. The food was cheap, the water was reasonable, and that should have panicked you right there. Elves playing fair.
You’d needed to resupply, and were planning to move on that night, but they said, “Stay,” and so you’d stayed. It was that easy. In fact, it sounded like such good advice at the time. Then again, everything someone tells you to do lately sounds like a good idea. You were free, now you are..what? A slave? Those idiots in Tyr had risen up a generation ago to throw off the yoke of slavery, only to discover death from thirst and exposure just as easily replaces death by the lash.
The food, the water, even the air, burning with incense like the swaying pot above you, all suffused with Sasuril, the drug they give the field slaves to make them pliable. So malleable all but the most inept practitioner of The Way could keep even a large group of captives like yours in line. Speaking of ineptitude, whatever hole they drug this telepath from, incompetent barely begins to cover it. You spend half your waking hours thinking calm thoughts, and the other half thinking about Broy, the fermented Kank honey the Templars drink. You’d never touched a drop of the stuff, but it certainly sounded delightful the way she made you think of it.
Aside from the bungler though, these Elves had some serious backing. The armored, hollowed out and thoroughly undead Mekillot you rode inside didn’t come cheap, nor did its Necromant handler. Not to mention they were keeping the dosage of your drugs so potent for such an extended duration, they had to be producing it themselves; must be, because they all seemed immune to it. It was a good racket they had going. Even the supplies came cheap, as you’d watched helplessly through the cracks as they bartered away your belongings to a tribe of runaway slaves weeks ago. It didn’t pay to ask questions or pass judgment in the Tyr Region.
Which raises the question, why stop in the middle of the day? Not for provisions. Not to get out of the heat, for they could rest on the dead beast. Not to give the animals respite, for the lifeless Mekillot moved day and night, and the Athasian night came with its own unique dangers for both man and beast.
As the groaning and creaking of the Mekillot’s stride finally halts, you press your ear to a seam in the howdah’s walls, straining to glean information of any sort. Uneasy about something, the typically taciturn elves chat amongst themselves.
Between their idle boasts, mild jibes, and creative cursing, you discern your destination at last: Raam. City of the Dead, though to call it such to its people usually earned you a knife in the guts, or worse; the metropolis where the living gain no respite by dying. So that’s why they don’t care if you live. You aren’t to be slaves, your only purpose is to be all too willing conscripts in the army of Dregoth, the “Savior.” Apparently, the elves are employing your lot to curry favor with the Sorcerer King, allowing their tribe to open trading within the city, and raising the stakes against some merchant house or other.
As you listen, the wind kicks up, carrying the remaining words of the elves away from you. Like no sandstorm you’ve ever bore witness to, the air itself grows heavier; thicker somehow, and oppressive. One of the elves barely has time to scream, “Tyr Storm!” above the howl, when it is upon you. Driving water pelts down hard from the sky, like the tales they tell the noble’s children. Only this time the impotent rage of an imprisoned god follows closely behind the falling water. Fury, anguish, hatred, terror, and a nameless feeling that was never meant to be felt by creatures of the flesh crushes your naked body to the floor. You cup your hands over your head, sobbing, yelling, and trying with all your might to bury your fingers to the knuckle in your ear, as the storm robs you of whatever pitiable dignity the elves did not strip away first.
Bolts of eldritch electricity tear from the sky, followed by a deafening roar. Your world is light and pain for an instant, followed by a sensation of flying. Perhaps if the avian was conscious you could ask it? The jarring shock of returning to the earth confirms your suspicion a moment later, and all you know for a time is darkness.
A stabbing beam of late afternoon light from the orange sun awakens you, the storm having abated, thanks to whatever small mercy remains in this pitiless world. Your bonds are intact, but the howdah lies in two pieces, torn free of the Mekillot by the fury of the storm. Neither the elves or their beasts are within your limited range of vision, and all is quiet.
You don’t know where they’ve gone; dead, run off in the madness of the storm, or simply chasing after their beasts, and honestly, you don’t care. Now is the time to regain your freedom.
*I must remove these bonds. Never a slave again!* RRRAAAARRRRGGGHHH!!! *strength check to break my bonds=17-1 for fatigue=16*
tear with my claws and attack the bonds with my beak bite attack as best I can (I think they do a d4 damage+str mod); fervor and ferious my only thought to be free or be dead.
"(click)so.....tired....(che cha) must wing...free...(sob"
The dun-coloured thri-kreen's antennas twitter about in excitement as it realises that the elven slavers are gone. After briefly considering the actions of its fellow captives, it bends down and starts chewing frenziedly at its bonds, spitting pieces of hair all over the compartment.
Aso, hungry and tired, casts his eyes around the room trying to decide who is the least caked in piss, s~*&, and vomit.
In the afternoon's orange light, Zuko considers sheathing himself in the flame's power and burning through these bonds. He decides that prudence is the better part of valor. He must be sure that he can escape unnoticed and into Raam. He listens and looks around for any sign of guards, both human and undead.
Listen Check 1d20+4=12, Spot Check 1d20+4=17
Aso locks eyes with Zuko and tries to judge his potential as... supper.
Zuko locks gaze with a feral looking halfling. I do hope he doesn't try anything until I'm ready to escape. Zuko flashes the feral looking halfling a grin. I am not backing down. I am not food. Don't make the mistake of assuming otherwise.
Aso decides Zuko doesn't look like food. No fear.
Zuko notices that the feral looking halfling understood his message . Zuko returns to his thoughts and considers his options for escape. What I need to escape unnoticed is a diversion....
In Thri Kreen (which is easy to speak than human)
"(chick klack) a pact between us, I suggest,(tskch) for your strength and my scouting would be an assesst to our survival"
"Your proposal is interesting, feathered one. Let me free myself first, and I will then help you cut your restraints."
Over the time of their captivity, Issiki has found that the one who should be a brother to him is the strangest of all. He is like a beast in his mind, or at worst like a human. The drylanders have corrupted him and stolen his mind. His psychic missives to the strange one have gone unanswered but for bestial noise.
He can rely on no-one but himself. And to think these savages thought he would feast on the flesh of wretched prisoners. A warrior's heart roasted well is best. Everyone knows that. So weak... Spirits forgive me.. the tall ones have broken me He tries to wriggle free of the bonds but finds he can barely move.
Escape Artist check (effective Dex of 10 due to exhaustion) (1d20=1)
Kirrish-Kreshk-Skiklik regards the aarakocra with a cocked head for a brief moment before pacing toward it, his four arms still sliding against one another.
(In Thri-kreen)
(In Thri-kreen to Scarsnikt)
A sudden flurry of activity from Aso as he thrashes around on the floor and grunts.
In the final throes of Aso's attempt, he observes another normal being as it weakly attempts to escape.
Missive to Issiki, in rusty halfling:
(In Thri-kreen to Scarsnikt)** spoiler omitted **
Pheromones fly through the air!
"aye, annya have a crap in your guts? Might use it...to grease these ropes up some....I sprayed out the bunger four days on that skanky kank we ate they feds us....got none left."
Grunts, straining, trying to work out of the ropes.
"Not even a crap to my name. Happy days!"
EDITED FROM FATIGUED TO EXHAUSTED
"Heh...heh....crap in one hand, wish in the other..."
A big gaptoothed grin plays across his face, he starts giggling, his skull now the tureen, his brain like unto marzapan...from the heat.
I'm kinda exhausted my damn self right now, so....
(In Thri-kreen to Scarsnikt)** spoiler omitted **
Pheromones fly through the air!
** spoiler omitted **
More Thri-Kreen:
Declaration: Food, water and shade must be found. Calamity will have lost tracks; hunting treacherous thin-shell sand walkers will be difficult.
Declaration of hate: Elfs will pay. This one will pull out hearts, burn them, let blood run through sand and leave corpse for wind and sand. Not even scavengers will eat.
I say this to all who are trapped here. We need to escape and get out of here quickly. We need to work together to bring an end to our bound state. Once we escape we are alone in the deserts outside the City of the Dead, together we may have a chance but alone we will die. Free yourselves then free your brethren if they need help. When we are strong again I plan to kill the Elves that did this to me, perhaps some of you also would like that?
Skarsnikt turns to Holdrus, listening intently as the mul speaks. While his reply sounds like a wheezing old man talking with his mouth full of gravel, the words are decipherable to those who pay attention.
"Large softshell - you speak true. Need for group strong. Elf slavers must die. Now group must break loose."
"Schenker's me, and all. I do that, schenk those are trying to Schenk the Schenker, there and all.
I'd spit and shake yours on all and all,...he heee he hee!
I'm all out of spit though, and the hands are all...you know good as I."
Schenker looks around, continues in a raspy voice.
"I think we all here could use all the friends we could get, if you know what I mean."
"Aso... d... d... d... don't'rus' b... b... b... bigjobs anymor'n'elves", Aso says to Holdrus, and gestures to the humans. Aso is still working on that escape artist roll posted above.
"Aye! I'm siddered on the weeish side of manfolk, fellow."
Shenker looks deep in thought a smidge:
"You got nothing....I got nothing....and I ain't going eat YOU."
"you l... l... looks already et"
Kirrish-Kreshk-Skiklik moves warily toward the struggling halfling, keeping a low center of gravity in case of any sudden attacks/lunges. Keeping his two upper arms ready for a counter-attack, if necessary, he uses his two lower limbs to cut the bonds furthest from Aso's mouth and even then only halfway, to provide himself enough time to skip back a few paces before the feral small-kin can free himself. He then turns to Issiki and performs a similar operation, if necessary.
In a broken, monotoned common he says,"Declaration: This one will join clutch to hunt long-ear sand walkers and take kill kill."
With this, he begins to scrounge for any supplies possibly left from the shattered howdah.
MalaKi struggles with his bonds. He grunts agreement to Holdrus' words. "The mul speaks true", he says, "I could use some help myself." Once free he eyes the others warily.
For the DM:
MalaKi immediately activates his inertial armor choosing invisible mode.
After freeing himself he casually ties three knots into the rope. He ties one near each end and one in the center making a crude garrote.
(Escape Artist: 1d20+3=13 ) MalaKi may need to take 20…
Aso breaks a crazed grin.
"you l... l... looks already et"
"he hee he heee!!! As if this a good place to look a pretty chinty?
No fencement, stubby; you're not looking a tasty dish on the dancy strumpet's block of your self, not yet then!"hmmm....he rubs his chin crusted in stubble and grime
"Know where a chimp could take us a bath, lovely?"
Disorientation: This one know city dweller words come out dirty dirty city dweller mouth, this one still not know what he say.
"Dirty dirty mouth? He hah! It might be there's a fart against a sandstorm there's some hope for you, clicksy. Now, help a wee sprat out of some ropes, here as good as there, I'll throw for it!"
"Look here, see....he said ME was I looks all chewedsy, and I said, HE isn't Dancing Perfumed Veils and Wiggles, exactly like that, I might add."
The thri-kreen paces over to Shenker and after a second's pause, gently severs the ropes binding him with his lower set of arms.
"Query: Thin shell small kin insult thin shell city dwller, so thin shell city dweller insult thin shell small kin?
Declaration: All look same to this one."
Zuko whispers to the others, "Check if there are guards. I think I have a way of burning through these bonds."
Shenker rubs his sore wrists and looks up thankfully at the thri kreen.
"And thankyou, Eminence! I'll sing a song now, of sweet sweet water. Better yet, I'll spare you all that cruel fate; we're all giddy inside."
Shenker approaches the nearest poor sot that needs free.
"Okay, allright. Shenker's free, is all of you is free. Let's all be pally-oes, get along greats. Dragon kings and mad beggars agree: any one you don't special to, that sand out there doesn't either."
"Query: Thin shell small kin insult thin shell city dwller, so thin shell city dweller insult thin shell small kin?Declaration: All look same to this one."
"I'll be winkin this eye lots," Shenker winks his right eye at the thri kreen, "and as you can't wink, you can want to. But you can tell us one from another that way."
MalaKi says to Zuko, “Save your tricks. A little time and luck will see us free of these bonds. One of the thri-kreen seems willing to help.” MalaKi speaks to the sandy yellow thri-kreen who is helping the others get free, saying, "Declaration: This one will join clutch to hunt long-ear sand walkers and take kill kill. With pleasure pleasure."
"Alright." Zuko nods to Malaki and waits patiently for freedom, as he keeps an eye out for guards.
::Kirrish-Kreshk-Skiklik continues the helpful bug routine and frees Malaki and Zuko, if they still need it. He's going to try and tie the ropes together, end to end, just in case rope will be needed later.::
'I came to wakefulness, and took stock of my mental and physical condition as I heard motion and conversation going on around me. I could THINK for the first time in,... a long time. And now that I could think, Elves were going to die.'
The human with the short-shorn red hair sits up suddenly, then looks like he wished he hadn't. He looks around at all the others, taking in everything with clear eyes for the first time. He starts to speak, but only a dry rasping noise comes from his throat. He swallows several times, then tries again.
"I accept your proposal of cooperation." He speaks hoarsely. Looking to the nearest Thri-Kreen, whom seems to be the biggest help in freeing the others, he continues in it's own tongue as he weakly raises his own bound hands.
In Thri-Kreen,...
"Query: Will you be so kind as to assist? I will be honored to share your hunt-clutch for the traitorous, Pointy-eared, soft-shelled, sand-walking, water-filled sacks of $#!t that dared to imprison us!"
He looks around at the others again, keeping a particularly wary eye on the feral looking small one. But he accepts the aid of the other small one if he offers it before the Thri-Kreen, Giving a wan, dirty smile at his unusual common-speech.
"We will not get far until we can regain our strength. But we cannot stay here."
Suddenly his eyes go wide, and he claws at his own chest. He suddenly begins struggling against his bonds with the sudden energy of desperation.
"Cair d'Niaf! Where is Cair d'Niaf?!"
"Thank you, fellow sentient. I'm sure that on the trek home I will be given a chance to repay your kindness. My word on it, by the flame."
Zuko then considers the manner of construction of the cage and best means of cracking it open. He is alert and on the look out for guards. He helps untie the rest.
The dreadlocked, naked halfling helps untie the rest, in particular Issiki, searches for a weapon, even an improvised one would be fine, and salivates. Now and then he stops to pick fleas out of his pubic hair. He eats them.
MalaKi nods his thanks to Aso and Kirrish-Kreshk-Skiklik. For a moment his imagination runs wild and he wonders which one of those two would provide him the swiftest death. Paralyzed then eaten alive versus raped then eaten alive. He shudders. MalaKi quickly comes to himself. Time enough for idle speculation later. He then turns to Faindriac Fellstar and says with a stern voice and sad face, “Many slaves perished during the journey. Our destination was to be Raam. The elves did not care whether the cargo arrived alive or dead. Only those you see around you were alive before the storm. I’m afraid Cair d’Niaf is dead.”
Aso stares at the humans, who he associates with his former captors even though he knows everyone here is a captive like him. He says nothing, remains prepared to chew out their throats, but does not act aggressively. The fleas are a small but satisfying snack. His head throbs from dehydration.