Rednoir Quest

 The third day began differently. Not with the sharp crack of whips or the bark of orders— —but with a silence that watched. Balack opened her eyes slowly. The damp stone pressed against her back. Chains rattled lightly as she stretched with almost feline elegance. Around her, the others stirred — slower, heavier than before. Something in the air felt wrong. Skyme curled tighter against Balack’s side, muttering in her sleep, something about spiders that sang. Edith woke laughing—a breathless, giddy sound—as if she’d just heard the punchline to a terrible joke. Zharina sat up instantly, scanning the pen, her body tense like a bowstring. Only Jimjar seemed unfazed. "Nightmares, eh?" he said brightly, dusting himself off. "Bet you five silver it gets worse." He waited, grinning, hand out expectantly. No one took the bet. The guards came late this morning. Sloppy. Tense. Even they seemed disturbed. The prisoners were split up again for chores. Balack, Zhari...

The second day of captivity began not with the blare of horns or the clash of arms, but with the rattle of keys and the cold slap of reality. Guards barked orders outside the slave pen. One by one, prisoners were prodded awake by the butts of crossbows through the bars. Balack Rednoir rose with the poise of a queen at court, her chains clinking musically as she moved. Her black hair was a tangled crown, her expression a perfect, effortless smile. "Up, little petals," she said, voice like velvet over broken glass. "Our hosts await." Zharina Melinster stood already, silent and disciplined. Edith Valor bounced up with wild energy, flashing a grin wide enough to crack stone. Skyme Deleaf, three feet of cheerful menace, hopped to her feet like a spring-loaded toy. Jimjar was already waiting by the gate, arms crossed, grinning from ear to ear. "Morning, friends!" he called out. "I’ll bet one silver piece we get assigned water hauling again. Any take...

The world returned to them through a haze of poison and stone. Balack Rednoir was the first to lift her head, blinking slowly. The heavy weight of a collar bit at her neck, the chains at her wrists clinking lightly as she shifted. She smiled—small, controlled, a queen dethroned but still very much regal. "Ah," she whispered under her breath, her voice like silk, "we've been invited to a rather exclusive event." Around her, the others stirred. Zharina Melinster sat up stiffly, silent but alert. Edith Valor rolled over with a wild grin plastered on her face, still half-drunk on chaos and glee. Skyme Deleaf blinked twice, then giggled. "We're guests!" she chirped, rattling her chains like a tambourine. From the shadows of the slave pen, two figures approached cautiously: a dwarf woman with fiery hair and stern eyes, and a wiry deep gnome grinning from ear to ear. "Name’s Jimjar," said the gnome with a sweeping bow, chains jingling. ...