The woman sidled up toward Morne with a large grin on her face, showing surprisingly perfect teeth for a criminal.
She had the black hair and square pupils of an Ondethalian, a pair of traits her compatriots lacked, and when she spoke, her voice was like honey.
"Well, well, well," she said, gray eyes peering into Morne's hazel depths as she advanced. The anger in his eyes earned a flicker of amusement from her. "You're a big one, aren't ya?"
"Dat's what I thaid!" the man to Morne's back said with a chuckle, having a hard time speaking with his tongue wrapped around his captive's waist. "Ithn't he perfecth?"
"Jem, stop talking with your tongue out," snapped the woman. "You sound ridiculous."
"Thorry, Troth," the man said apologetically.
While this "Troth" was chiding her subordinate, Morne pointed a finger toward her with his still-extended right arm.
"Splinter Shot."
Nothing happened.
It took Morne a second to realize that the words he had spoken weren't "splinter shot" but were instead a mangled mess of incomprehensible syllables.
Shortly after this realization, he noticed that his tongue felt thick and heavy, and his thoughts were similarly sluggish, as if he was drunk.
"Troth" laughed. "He's a Mage!" she hollered, whooping with joy. "We hit the jackpot here, boys!"
The three men learned their lesson from the previous scolding and didn't speak, but their eyes lit up with greed when they heard this.
The woman clapped her hands on Morne's shoulders, tilting her head back to look at Morne's face. "Name's Tross," she said. "And you're my cash cow. Thank you for your valiant sacrifice to line our pockets, good sir. Have a nice nap."
Morne's eyelids suddenly became as heavy as stone, and his thoughts slowed to a crawl.
.......
The large man slumped forward onto his knees, prompting her to step back.
"Holster those knives, boys," she commanded, gesturing at her three companions.
The three men retracted their tongues with the utmost care, careful not to damage their catch any further than they already had.
The four gathered around Morne as he flopped onto his side, and Tross pointed at Hendrey and Gentrey.
"Bandage him up. I don't want him bleeding out before we bring him in."
The two nodded and knelt down, tearing off strips of Morne's shirt to bandage his wounds. They certainly weren't going to ruin their own clothes.
"What rank is he, do you think?" asked Jem. "Practitioner? Adept?"
"Not a chance," Tross shook her head. "You saw how he fought. He didn't even think of using magic first. I'd say Novice, *maybe* Apprentice. Either way, this is still quite a find."
"He looks like he's from the empire," Jem commented. "Definitely not from around here. Everyone in this town knows not to go down this street, even the guards."
"It's best we stop wondering about the hows and the whys, and just thank Reynta that this gold mine landed at our feet," Tross replied.
Jem nodded. Personally, he didn't think this find had anything to do with the Goddess of Luck and Currency. He was the one who had spotted Morne, didn't he deserve some credit?
But of course, he didn't voice such thoughts. The last person to sour Tross' good mood currently had his severed head shoved up a horse's hindquarters, and he wasn't eager to share that fate.
.......
"Wake up, meat."
A bucket of ice-cold water doused Morne from head to toe, startling him awake.
He instantly tried to jump to his feet, determined to finish the fight, only for chains to stop him dead and the shackles to dig into his wrists.
The man who had thrown the water at him laughed heartily, tossing the bucket aside. "Good, you still have fight in you! Rest up, meat. You're on in five."
The man left without another word, locking the cell door behind him.
Morne forced the tension out of his limbs, sitting back down as he examined his surroundings.
He was in the middle of a dimly lit, dirt-walled cell. The only way out was the barred door in front of him, which was also the only source of light.
His shirt was in tatters, missing entire strips, which he found in a corner, soaked through with blood.
His arms were covered in thin, long scabs that burned every time his heart pumped a wave of blood through them, but they remained sealed even as he flexed his arms, testing them.
Metal shackles bound his wrists and ankles, connecting him to the ground via chains attached to metal plates embedded in the floor. These chains were only three inches long at most, hence his earlier struggle when trying to stand.
His mind was clear, and his tongue felt normal, so whatever poison that Tross woman had injected into him must have worn off. When he looked for the entrance wound, he found naught but his own flesh.
The dull thump of boots caught his attention, and he looked up to see a man, different from the one earlier, sliding a key into the cell door's lock.
He left it open as he strode in, crossing his arms as he scowled down at Morne.
Despite Morne sitting on his ass, this man stood barely two heads taller. He couldn't have been more than five feet tall, but his Ondethalian eyes regarded Morne with the same interest as that of a farmer judging his cattle.
"I'm going to release you," the man said in a deep voice befitting his grizzled face, if not his height. "Don't think of attacking me. There are hundreds of armed people out there that can cut you down in seconds if you try to escape.
"You do what I say, when I say, or I'll snuff out your life to save myself the trouble."
He didn't wait for Morne to reply, waving his hand at the other man's shackles.
They opened with a click, slipping off Morne's wrists and ankles and allowing him to stand to his full height.
He towered over the Ondethalian, but the smaller man simply turned and gestured for Morne to follow, completely unfazed.
Not seeing another choice, Morne followed.