Jorah's last memory had been sitting down with a street pamphlet and a glass of wine. It was a piece requesting Antiva's complete and total surrender, given the death of their king. It entreated the commonfolk to consider sparing their lives, and turn over what remained of the royal family and the Talons. He had found run over on the near-barren streets, which had all but halted in traffic since the embargos had begun. He had come home to sit down and make arrangements for his family given how the country was falling apart at the seems.
Now, Jorah's head split with pain. His face betrayed his sickness as he winced awake. His fingers immediately ran through his scalp, as if trying to squeeze the curse out of his brains. He lay like this for a few minutes. As he heard someone's voice, he cracked his eyes open and looked around himself. Four others were about him. A graceful looking elf riddled in the scars of slavery had spoken, requesting they all remain quiet. With a raspy voice, clogged with unnatural sleep, he replied, [color=orange]"How are we still alive at all?"[/color] and then he eased himself up into a sitting position. Where is this? Why were they all here too?
He squinted at the rest of them, trying to make out any details that might offer a clue, before noticing the enormous lock around his neck. It was the size of a dinnerplate of solid lead, with a keyhole the size of a coin. "No problem," he thought, and stuck a finger in to play with the pins.
Jorah flinched as something cold and sharp snapped onto his finger. [color=orange]"Ahhh-shshshs,"[/color] he cried while trying to be quiet and looking around with raccoon eyes. He drew his finger out, and the dark raspberry color of blood flowed from the tip. He grabbed what was left of his torn-up, dirt-covered white tunic, and pressed it onto his finger.
[color=orange] "Maker, it bit me!"[/color] he announced with a husky whisper. He looked up with more urgency now. [color=orange]"What is this all about? Am I a slave like you?"[/color] he asked the elf callously.
TLDR: Jorah has a bad headache. Jorah wonders where he is. Jorah asked "Why aren't we dead yet?" Jorah's lock is the size of a dinnerplate. The lock bit Jorah's finger when he tried to jimmy it. Jorah asks Faelyn if he's a slave like him now.
Now, Jorah's head split with pain. His face betrayed his sickness as he winced awake. His fingers immediately ran through his scalp, as if trying to squeeze the curse out of his brains. He lay like this for a few minutes. As he heard someone's voice, he cracked his eyes open and looked around himself. Four others were about him. A graceful looking elf riddled in the scars of slavery had spoken, requesting they all remain quiet. With a raspy voice, clogged with unnatural sleep, he replied, [color=orange]"How are we still alive at all?"[/color] and then he eased himself up into a sitting position. Where is this? Why were they all here too?
He squinted at the rest of them, trying to make out any details that might offer a clue, before noticing the enormous lock around his neck. It was the size of a dinnerplate of solid lead, with a keyhole the size of a coin. "No problem," he thought, and stuck a finger in to play with the pins.
Jorah flinched as something cold and sharp snapped onto his finger. [color=orange]"Ahhh-shshshs,"[/color] he cried while trying to be quiet and looking around with raccoon eyes. He drew his finger out, and the dark raspberry color of blood flowed from the tip. He grabbed what was left of his torn-up, dirt-covered white tunic, and pressed it onto his finger.
[color=orange] "Maker, it bit me!"[/color] he announced with a husky whisper. He looked up with more urgency now. [color=orange]"What is this all about? Am I a slave like you?"[/color] he asked the elf callously.
TLDR: Jorah has a bad headache. Jorah wonders where he is. Jorah asked "Why aren't we dead yet?" Jorah's lock is the size of a dinnerplate. The lock bit Jorah's finger when he tried to jimmy it. Jorah asks Faelyn if he's a slave like him now.
07-10-2023, 01:45 PM
