Felix tugged on the roughspun ropes in his hands, knowing that they chafed against the others' wrists, a deliberate discomfort meant to sell the lie. Around him, his team – Adade, Hamza, Fatima, Matoi, Lucille, and Trice – stumbled with forced weariness, their heads bowed in feigned submission among other unfortunate individuals who had been captured as slaves. The air hung thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and something metallic, the undercurrent of fear a palpable thing. They were being herded through the tangled undergrowth of the Granoan wilds by a motley crew of thugs, their movements clumsy yet possessive.
The path they were taking was deliberately circuitous, a threadbare track barely visible beneath the snow and gnarled roots. Normally that would make it difficult to find the hideout, but one disadvantage the continent-wide winter had brought was the fact that their footprints would be left behind in the snow, and so they needed to be very cautious.
The forest pressed in on all sides, the ancient trees like silent, watchful sentinels. Moonlight struggled to pierce the dense canopy, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the unseen movements of the forest. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot, carried the potential threat of a Granoan huntsman pack. These demihumans were territorial and fiercely protective of their domain. Avoiding them was paramount, even if it meant adding hours to their journey.
Leading the thugs was a hulking figure named Borak, his face a roadmap of old scars and his eyes glinting with a cruel amusement. He turned his attention to Felix, a sneer twisting his lips.
"So, catboy," he rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. "Where's Marconni? We were expecting him to count his new acquisitions personally, weren't we?"
Felix kept his gaze lowered, affecting a defeated slump. "He… he had business elsewhere."
Borak's eyes narrowed. "Business? Important enough to miss out on a haul like this?" He gestured crudely at the bound individuals, causing the closest one, a mother and her child, to flinch. Borak was especially interested in Felix's team, particularly the women. Fatima's proud centaur form, even in its current state of simulated dejection, was undeniably striking. Matoi, with her well-built form, Lucille with her lithe grace, and Trice, who looked... well, nice enough to be mistaken as a woman at first glance. His stoic silence held an undercurrent of barely suppressed irritation. They were all valuable commodities in the slaver's market.
"He pays well," Felix mumbled, his voice carefully devoid of any real emotion. "He trusts us to deliver."
Borak took another step closer, his shadow falling over Felix. "Trust, you say?" He chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. "Trust is a word for the weak-minded. Maybe he trusts what you can do for him. You are his slave, after all."
Felix clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to spit in the thug's face. "Back off, Borak." The words were soft, but there was a steel in his tone that even Borak seemed to notice.
The thug leader's amusement vanished, replaced by a flicker of something darker. He was significantly taller than Felix, and he used the advantage to loom over him, his breath hot and stale against Felix's face. The air crackled with tension. Felix felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, his fingers instinctively twitching beneath his cloak, resting against the hilts of his twin daggers. He knew Borak, knew the volatile swings of his moods, the razor-thin line between boisterous camaraderie and brutal violence. He was prepared to absorb a few blows if it meant maintaining their cover, but the predatory gleam in the eyes of some of the other thugs, the way they lingered on the slaves they'd captured, sent a cold dread through him. They would take the littlest thing as an excuse to maltreat these people. That made Felix's heart bleed. This felt different. There was a hunger here that went beyond mere profit. These people were in it for the love of the game.
Then, just as the silence stretched taut, Borak threw back his head and roared with laughter. He clapped Felix on the shoulder, the force of it nearly sending him stumbling. "By the Abyss! Look at you, finally growing some balls!" He laughed again, a booming sound that echoed through the trees. "I like it. Got some fire in you after all." His grip tightened on Felix's shoulder, the mirth fading from his eyes. "Don't like it that much though."
Felix gritted his teeth and sharply shrugged Borak's hand away. He refused to meet the thug's gaze, focusing instead on the path ahead. The journey continued in strained silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves in the winter breeze and the occasional muttered curse from one of the thugs, followed by the crack of a whip and the pained wail of a victim.
As they trudged onward, one particularly repulsive thug, his teeth stained a disturbing yellow, sidled up to Fatima. His greasy fingers reached out, tangling in the thick, golden strands of her hair. He chuckled lewdly, his eyes raking over her equine lower body. Fatima's hooves shifted restlessly, the urge to deliver a bone-shattering kick almost overwhelming. But then her eyes met Matoi's. Her friend, positioned across from her in their forced procession, gave the slightest shake of her head, her gaze a silent plea for restraint. With a visible effort, Fatima clenched her teeth and forced herself to ignore the unwanted attention, her pride a tight knot in her chest.
Hours later, the oppressive white of the forest began to thin, revealing a clearing dominated by the skeletal remains of ancient stone structures. Crumbling walls, overgrown with moss and vines, hinted at a civilization long past. This was their destination, their "base" – a collection of dilapidated ruins that offered little more than rudimentary shelter. The air here was thick with the smell of dampness, decay, and the unmistakable stench of despair.
They were led through a gaping hole in what was once a sturdy wall, entering a courtyard littered with shattered masonry. Deeper within the ruins, in the shadowed recesses of what might have been a grand hall, huddled a miserable collection of beings. Humans, elves, and other unfortunate souls, their eyes hollow and their bodies thin, stared blankly ahead. The living conditions were appalling. They lay on the cold stone floor, some chained together, their clothes tattered and their spirits broken. The air was thick with the sounds of coughs, whimpers, and the heavy silence of utter hopelessness.
In one corner, amidst the squalor, sat an old man, a plume of fragrant smoke curling from the long, intricately carved pipe in his mouth. His face, etched with wrinkles that spoke of hardship and resilience, and a shaven head, was instantly recognizable. Old Man Tibera. He looked remarkably unchanged from the memories Felix carried of him as a frightened, newly enslaved boy. Tibera had been a smuggler, a man who operated in the shadows, but he had shown Felix and his sisters a sliver of kindness in the brutal reality of their captivity. He had treated them with a semblance of humanity, a stark contrast to the cruelty they endured from the other people around them. And it was Tibera who had patiently taught Felix the deadly dance of the daggers, the subtle manipulation of his nascent Arcana, skills that had ultimately led him down this dangerous path.
Tibera's eyes, sharp despite his age, crinkled at the corners as he saw Felix. "Well, well," he rasped, his voice a low rumble. "Look what the cat dragged in. It's been a long time, little kitty. Glad to see you're still breathing."
He craned his neck to the side and observed the huddled slaves behind Felix with a sweep of his pipe. "Quite a catch you've got there."
Felix kept his expression carefully blank, his gaze sweeping over the miserable scene. "They'll fetch a good price."
Tibera's gaze sharpened, his eyes flicking to Felix's stance. He saw the subtle tension in his shoulders and puffed out some smoke. "You must be tired from your journey and dealing with the musclebound idiot," he said, gesturing towards Borak, his tone casual.
Borak glared at him but didn't dare say a word.
"Come, join an old man for a bit of refreshment."
Felix started to decline, but Tibera cut him off with a knowing look. "You're old enough to drink now, boy. And besides," he added, a hint of his old mischievousness returning, "it's not like our… 'former' employer is going to miss a little something from this lot." He rose stiffly and placed a surprisingly strong arm around Felix's shoulders, steering him deeper into the ruins, away from his team and the watchful eyes of the other thugs.
As they moved, Fatima's gaze flickered to one of the guards, the man with a greasy grin and eyes that lingered on her with unsettling intensity. But then she saw Matoi, seated with forced stillness amongst the other 'slaves,' give another subtle shake of her head. With a sigh of weary resignation, Fatima turned away, settling down with as much grace as her bound limbs would allow, the weight of their precarious situation pressing down on them all.