The roads of Arethil were dangerous places. Paid mercenaries and armed travellers would often band together with those who could not protect themselves from the wilds.
One such caravan twisted gracefully through the woods on a pleasant spring morning. A light mist hung in the air and the sun reached through the trees like fingers.
At the head of the caravan rode two armoured men. Behind them, a donkey pulled an open cage. With the cage sat a red-skinned tiefling. It's tailed slowly swished back and forth. It's arms and chest mottled with old bruises.
It's eyes were closed, but in a blink they were open.
"Good morning," he softly crooned to Aristeia Darke
"Dont talk to it," snapped one of the men guarding the prisoner.
"We'd have cut out its tongue, but master of the keep wants to hear it beg before the execution."
"How delightful," the tiefling whispered, wearing a wicked grin despite his confinement.
