(669 A.C.)
It was a lovely day to be kidnapped, Ott thought.
He didn’t particularly want to be kidnapped, mind. In fact, he was rather enjoying the sunny spring day as he sat beneath an oak tree and strummed a mellow melody on his lute. The tree, he noticed, was brimming with buds, ready to burst to life with green leaves. He sighed lightly to himself as a breeze swept by, still carrying a light chill from the winter that had broken just a few weeks before. Somewhere in the branches above him, a bird was singing sweetly, and Ott adjusted his own playing to match its tune.
Before him, the rolling expanse of Telldor’s plains stretched out as far as the eye could see. Further out, he knew there was the great Birellei river cutting through the country, but it was too far for Ott to see from his seat. There was only the grass kept cropped by herds of gazelle and zebra and other grazers--though there were none in sight--and the massive hydra roaming the plain in the distance.
Ott observed it idly. He had traveled through Telldor and Axelen enough to be familiar with the monsters, though he made it a point to never get too close. They mostly ignored humans from what stories Ott had heard, but he didn’t want to risk being an exclusion to that.
Not many details could be made out about the hydra, as far away as Ott was, but the beast was so massive that even a couple miles out, Ott could clearly make out each of its three heads moving and twisting about themselves on its long necks. Frills rose up and down like waves atop its heads and down to about halfway along the back of its neck. Its body, so far down from where its necks stretched, was rotund and set atop six squat legs. Ott watched as it seemed to walk in slow motion, two of its legs rising so slowly while two others moved forward, and the last two kept it standing.
Off several miles to the west, a small settlement of stone and brick buildings was nestled among the plains. Ott had just come from there, a place far enough out from the hydra’s territory to be safe. They had warned him of the dangers of the road ahead, and Ott had kindly thanked them before strutting away.
He had spotted the hill and tree atop it from the road leading out of the town that morning, and, figuring it was as good a place as any, headed toward it. Now, he lounged and played his lute and pretended he didn’t hear the quiet crunch of footsteps approaching.
He paused to toss his head back and run a hand through his brown locks. In the break in his music, he heard the footsteps grind to a halt just a few paces behind him.
Sighing, he carefully set his lute aside and twisted around, a crooked smile already in place. “Hello there.”
The man that had been approaching him froze. He was fairly nondescript, all things considered, with a poof of black hair, dusty clothes fit for a farmer or similar order of peasant, and a dagger clenched in one hand. He had a cloth covering the lower half of his face in what was no doubt a half-hearted attempt to hide his identity. A short sword hung from his hip, and there was a small bag resting on his back.
Ott stood, resting one arm on the tree and letting his weight lean against it. “Let me guess,” he continued, “you’re with the bandits plaguing this neck of the woods?”
The man tossed his dagger to his other hand and drew his short sword in a manner that was probably supposed to be intimidating. Ott just raised an eyebrow. “That’s right,” the man said.
“And is this the part where I hand over all my valuables?” Ott asked, inspecting his nails on his free hand. “Or is this the part where you gut me like a fish?”
“Are you stupid or something?” the man demanded, brandishing his blades like Ott hadn’t noticed them.
Before the man could say anything else, Ott grinned and stood up straight, hands shoved in his pockets. “Eh, maybe a little. Makes this go much more smoothly though, huh?”
“Well, if you’re so eager to make this easy,” the man sneered, “you’re going to do exactly what I say, and I don’t want no more mouthing off.”
Ott brought the back of his hand up to his forehead, turning his face away slightly. “Oh please, Mr. Bandit, sir, don’t hurt me! Of course I’ll do whatever you want.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the man demanded. “You’re supposed to be shaking in your boots right now! You’re about to be kidnapped!”
Ott gazed at the man from the corner of his eye, still grinning. “And what a lovely day for it, isn’t it?”
The man glared at him and did not respond. Without tearing his eyes away from Ott, he shoved his dagger into a sheath on his thigh and used his newly freed hand to reach into the sack on his back. From its short depths he pulled out a length of rope.
“I’m going to bind your hands--”
“Kinky.”
The man turned the same shade of red as a tomato. “Shuddup!” he barked, though Ott couldn’t tell if he was angry or embarrassed. Probably both. “I’m going to bind your hands and you’re going to follow me or I’ll--”
“Gut me like a fish?” Ott drawled, taking a wild guess.
The man’s mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth. He stepped closer, gesturing with his sword for Ott to hold out his hands. Ott smirked as he complied, and though he didn’t say anything, the bandit sneered at him. “I told you to shuddup.”
Ott just batted his eyes at him, the picture of innocence.
He heard the bandit distinctly grumble, “Fucking bards.” Then, he closed the distance between them, tucking his sword back in its sheath and making short work of tying Ott’s hands together. Ott let it happen without so much as a peep. He was almost surprised the bandit figured out he was a bard, but, well, he wasn’t exactly trying to be subtle about it either.
Once the bandit was done, Ott inspected the knot. It was tight enough for the rope to dig into his wrists uncomfortably, and he imagined it wouldn’t take long at all for it to rub the skin raw. He experimentally moved to pull his hands apart, but the knot held strong.
The bandit left about three feet of rope dangling from the knot and kept his grip on the end as he stepped away from Ott. “You’ll follow me,” he said lowly, “and you will be silent. Else, I figure slaves only need their hands, not their tongues.”
That confirmed what the townspeople had told him--these bandits were out here grabbing lonely travelers and forcing them to work. Or just selling them off to the highest bidder? That remained to be seen, but Ott figured he could find out.
He held up his bound hands, one finger extended up. “Just one last thing,” he said, giving a charming smile. “I’d hate to leave my prized lute behind.”
“Why? You ain’t gonna need it where you’re going.”
“Naturally,” Ot allowed. “But, your buyers might like to own their very own songbird, right? Someone who can serenade them as they kill babies and eat their flesh or... whatever it is slave-owners like to do in their free time.”
The bandit tugged on the rope, and Ott stumbled forward despite expecting it. “Not a chance. You think you’re worth enough to be sold? No, you’ll be working for all your worth in the mines, songbird.”
The bandit turned on his heel then, starting down the other side of the hill. Ott was given one last chance to glance back at the grassy expanse of Telldor and its hydra before he was forced to follow his captor or risk falling.
Well. That was step one down. He really needed to stop losing his lutes like this, though. Those things didn’t come cheap.
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They had been close to the border with Dryan when Ott’s bandit friend captured him, and by the time night was falling, they were square in rugged forest terrain. As there were no major forests like this in Telldor, that meant they’d crossed the border and were now in the jurisdiction of Dryan and the Empire. It was probably the only thing protecting the bandit’s operations--Fris to Telldor’s east had finally been annexed by the Tirandan Empire not five years back after nearly a decade of bitter conflict. Ott doubted Telldor wanted to draw the Empire’s eye next by sending a military force into one of its territories, even if it was to take down some bandits. Dryan--and the Empire as a whole, for that matter--probably wouldn’t bat an eye at any such operations happening in their borders. The Empire’s official stance on slavery, as far as Ott knew, was that it was inhumane. But if other people wanted to do it, who were they to stop them?
Ott supposed he couldn’t blame Tiranda and its Empire for their inaction. But he absolutely could blame them for the way they washed their hands clean of it while simultaneously encouraging it without saying they were encouraging it. After all, money could do all their talking for them.
In any case, it was well and truly dark by the time they reached the bandit encampment. The camp itself was equipped with the typical things Ott had come to associate with operations like this. Large, spiked walls carved from long logs that surrounded a passably circular area in the forest. Ott’s bandit friend called to those on duty watching their crude gate, and one of the women on the walkway running along the top of the wall shouted back in acknowledgement. It didn’t take long for the bandits to have the gate open and for Ott to be dragged inside.
The area the bandits had cleared out for their camp was fairly large. With the number of people--who were unarmed, shoulders hunched, and head bows, so decidedly not bandits--sitting or laying on the ground, the space was a little cramped, but there was certainly room for many more. From a quick scan, he noted the chains around their feet and how some, presumably the trouble-makers, also had rope binding their hands.
The captured people were split into groups, creating narrow paths between them for the bandits to walk. At first glance, Ott thought the groups were random and made just for the sake of creating room for the bandits to move about the camp. He quickly realized, however, that they were split by hair color. Heads of black were situated towards the back, just in front of a squat wooden building that presumably housed whatever operation the bandits needed such a workforce for. Those sporting brown sat in front of them, then the blondes, and anyone of higher color more towards the middle of the clearing. Ott thought it was quite the choice to put the mages closer to the gate of the encampment, but then, they were still plenty far from the exit, with a group of bandits around a bonfire added between them to deter any would-be escapees. Besides that, the highest hair color Ott even saw was silver, and that belonged to a couple of the bandits.
At least they were smart enough not to drag real mages into their business. So close to Fris, it could be a gamble to take anyone of a hair color higher than green or white. Old mages didn’t need the same help to cast magic, after all. Not that there were many of those anymore, but better to be safe than sorry, Ott mused.
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A tall watchtower stood next to the building, with a flat roof and two windows on each face of each level. Looking at it, Ott guessed there were probably three stories to the structure, and it was narrow, likely not big enough to act as a barracks for the bandits.
The bandit leading Ott yanked on his lead, causing Ott to stumble and pick up his pace. He brought Ott toward the bonfire whose enjoyers were likely higher ranking members of the bandit camp. Ott cast a glance behind him to see what they used to open and close the gate and balked at what he saw. He expected to find some of the captured people being forced to pull and push the lashed-together logs, or maybe even some type of mechanism that could be manned by one of the bandits. He did not, for even one instant, think he’d see two hulking werewolves pressing their shoulders into the two sides of the gate to close it, supervised by another bandit with long silver hair and a sword that glowed a faint blue in the darkness. Enchanted.
Ott couldn’t help but stop for a moment, shocked. The werewolves, despite it being night when they should be at their most hostile, appeared perfectly cowed and obedient as they shoved the gate back into place.
The only werewolf Ott had ever seen before had been just a rotting body. As disturbing as it had been while dead, he decided living ones were far more intimidating. Like many of the new god creatures, they walked on two legs and could conceivably be called humanoid. However, with the thick, dark fur covering every inch of their disturbingly muscular bodies, the tail that protruded from their backsides, and the wolf head sitting atop their shoulders, it was just non-human enough to make Ott shudder.
The silver-haired woman with the enchanted sword brought her free hand to her mouth and whistled. Ott wasn’t sure it was supposed to mean anything until one of the bandits on the wall walk reached down with a spear and stabbed at the closer werewolf. The beast, standing at least seven feet tall, could have reached up and slashed at the bandit with its wicked claws, but it only let out a whine and reached forward to drop the heavy, wooden bar meant to keep the gate shut.
The werewolves had thick metal collars around their necks, but no chains that Ott could see. Still, they did not lash out at the bandits, and when the gate was locked up tight, the silver-haired woman--who Ott would bet anything was the bandit leader--marched right up to them. The monsters trained their red eyes on her, but instead of attacking her the moment she was within reach, they lowered themselves to their knees. The woman, from what Ott could see in the low light, smiled. She patted them on their heads with her free hand, one then the other.
That was all Ott saw of the exchange before his lead was yanked on once again. He found himself stumbling forward again, but this time he wasn’t quite able to right himself. With a grunt, he landed on his knees and forearms in the dirt. Laughter sounded from around the bonfire as well as closer, from the bandit that had captured him.
Ott had far too much practice with this to scowl. Instead, he chuckled, too, and sat up, his knees still digging into the packed earth. “That was hardly necessary, don’t you think?” he said, smiling up at his captor.
The bandit’s mirth evaporated. His lip curled. “Esseli,” he called, tearing his gaze away from Ott to some point behind him. Where the werewolves and their master were, no doubt. “What do you think of this one?”
Only years of finding himself in less than favorable situations kept Ott from gulping or trembling. He didn’t twist to look at the bandit leader or her pets as she spoke, “Let’s see the fucker, then.”
The bandit pulled on Ott’s lead, sending a sharp pain through his raw wrists. Ott grunted and obediently stood, finally turning to properly face the woman. She had looked tiny when at a distance and next to the werewolves, but when she sheathed her sword and stepped up to him, Ott had to tilt his head back to look her in the eye.
She grunted as she scrutinized him. One hand shot out, gripping his cheeks and forcing his lips open as she examined his teeth. This close, Ott couldn’t help but notice her eyes were a dark honey brown that matched her skin, directly contrasting with her pale hair. “Looks to be in good enough health,” she commented. She released his face and instead tugged on his bound hands, gaze trailing down from his shoulder all the way to his palms. “Not very muscular, but there are calluses on his hands.”
“Bastard had a lute with him,” the bandit said.
This was the point at which Ott would usually make some quip about Esseli being handsy, but one look past her to where the werewolves were staring at him made him think twice about it. Then, one of them licked its chops, red eyes seeming to glow, and Ott decided against it altogether.
“A bard?” Esseli smirked, tilting her head as she caught Ott’s gaze. “Don’t imagine that tongue of yours is good for anything other than pretty words, is it?” She gripped him around his bindings, squeezing hard enough to make him flinch. “Or those fingers skilled in playing something other than strings?”
Ott chuckled, doing his best not to show his discomfort. It was hardly the first time something like this had happened, but that didn’t make the hungry way Esseli was looking at him any better. Still, he had a part to play. “I don’t make a habit of sleeping with my captors, sorry. Though, if you were to--I don’t know--cut me free and let me go in the morning, I don’t see why we couldn’t have some fun in the meantime.”
Esseli’s smirk turned to a small, tight-lipped smile. “You bards are all the same,” she said softly. “Think you can spill some honeyed words, spread your legs, and get out of any trouble you find yourselves in.” She released his wrists and patted him on the cheek. “You were almost right this time. You were handsome--up to the point you opened your mouth.”
Esseli stepped back, raking her eyes up and down his form. “He won’t last long,” she said, and Ott was almost offended at how casual it was. “Put him with the mages.”
Ott didn’t turn to look, but he could hear the frown in the voice of the bandit still holding his lead. “But he’s a plain.”
“Do you get paid to talk back to me?” Esseli asked, looking at her underling over Ott’s head and arching an eyebrow. “Or do I pay you to follow fucking orders?”
“I just meant--”
“He’s a bard, Freun,” she interrupted, resting one hand on her hip. Ott couldn’t help but notice one of the werewolves licked its lips again. “I don’t believe that tuft of brown hair for an instant. But if he was a capable enough mage to fight you off, he probably would have. You’re lucky I don’t just slit his throat and yours for bringing in someone who has obviously dyed their hair to appear more unassuming.” She grinned, all teeth like a pixie, and Ott couldn’t help the way his eyes widened slightly. “So put him with the mages. I’m making you personally responsible for him. If anything happens, I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to Hush and Shush. Are we done here?”
Ott could hear Freun swallow hard behind him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Her gaze flicked down to Ott. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, bard,” she said lowly, “but I don’t underestimate mages in my care. Especially not ones I don’t know the capabilities of. So just remember: werewolf jaws rip through the flesh of mages just as easy as anyone else’s.”
Despite himself, Ott glanced at the werewolves again--Hush and Shush. Their red eyes bored into him, unwavering.
Ott repressed the urge to gulp and instead gave Esseli a dazzling smile. “I’m sure I’ll win you over yet,” he crooned. He began to sing, “For the love of a fool is his life, and the life of a fool is his love, so I--”
“No, no,” Esseli said, shaking her head. At least she seemed amused and not irritated. Though, Ott was having a hard time reading her, which was really mucking up his plans. Usually, bandit leaders were hardly this intimidating or discerning. “No singing.” She nodded to Freun, then. “Take him away.”
“Come on, songbird,” Freun said, already moving toward the other prisoners. Ott was forced to spin on his heel and follow or risk falling again. When they were out of earshot of Esseli, Ott was just able to catch Freun mutter, “Fucking bitch.”
He brought Ott past the bonfire and over to the group of mage prisoners. The lot was significantly smaller than the others, with probably only a dozen people and all of them only heads of lime green or startling white. Freun shouted toward another bandit near the building in the back of the clearing, and then disappeared inside. Ott tried to catch a glimpse past the open doorway, but he didn’t have enough luck to make out anything distinct. The bandits were probably just keeping their supplies inside and maybe the entrance to the mine they kept talking about. His assumption seemed true enough as the other bandit returned, shackles gripped in his hands.
Freun snatched the shackles from the other bandit the moment he was within reach. He wasted no time stooping down to lock them onto Ott’s ankles. When he was done, he straightened and stepped behind Ott, giving him a non-too-light shove toward the huddle of mages.
“Best get some sleep. The only rest you’ll see after tonight is when you’re dead,” Freun said.
He started to leave, and Ott quickly spun to face him. “My hands?” he called, holding them out in front of him.
Freun ignored him, marching away to climb up a ladder to the wall walk. Ott huffed, watching him meet up with a small group of other bandits and not glancing toward Ott or any of the prisoners at all.
Nothing could ever be easy. Grumbling, Ott turned back around and shuffled closer to the small group of mages. Most of them ignored him as they laid curled up on their sides and tried to sleep, or maybe they were actually asleep. The only exception to this was a teenage girl with green hair and golden eyes sitting toward the middle of the group who, like Ott, had her hands bound with rope as well as her feet shackled together. Ott couldn’t help but notice the dark bruise around her left eye when she looked at him, but instead of the scowl or quick look away that Ott was expecting, she smiled at him.
It was as good a place as any to start. Ott picked his way through the group until he reached a bare spot of earth next to the girl and sat down.
She glanced up at his hair when he settled beside her, her brow furrowing. “Why’d they stick you over here?”
Ott gave the girl an easy smile. Hopefully, she would prove to be an ally to him in the days to come, but Ott didn’t know if that was true yet. For now, she was just a smiling face among the downtrodden, and Ott would try to get a read of her and the overall situation through her, if he could.
“They think I know magic because I’m a bard,” he answered, omitting anything that could be construed as truth or a lie.
The girl frowned. “But... your hair is brown.” Ott shrugged, and she reached forward her bound hands, opening them up as much as possible. “Well, I’m Wanily.”
Despite how he was still bound too, Ot reached out and shook her hand. “Charmed. I’m Ott.”
She took her hands back, letting them fall into her lap with a sigh. “I’ve never met a bard before. Well, I mean, I’ve seen a couple while traveling, but I’ve never sat down and talked to one.”
“No?” Ott grinned. “You’re in luck then, Wanily, ‘cause you’re talking to the greatest bard to ever set foot in the West. Or the East for that matter.”
“So... the greatest bard anywhere?”
“Well, you see, there’s this little uninhabited island off the southern tip of Fris that I’ve never been to. Can’t call myself the greatest bard to ever set foot there if I’ve never been, right?”
Wanily snorted. “I’ve been to a lot of places,” she said. “If you’re the greatest bard, why haven’t I heard of you before?”
Ott held up his hands, raising one finger. “Ah, that would be because the world doesn’t know I’m the greatest bard. Yet.”
Ott expected Wanily to laugh or roll her eyes or otherwise cajole him, but instead, she nodded sagely. “I’m going to be the greatest mage in the world one day,” she said. “The Archmage. I just need to get out of this place first.”
Now that was what Ott liked to hear. Not the Archmage part--though he wouldn’t dismiss Wanily’s dreams out of hand--but the escaping part. Ott appraised her. “Is that how you got that?” he said, gesturing to her eye.
She huffed. “I almost got out, too,” she said. “But I couldn’t leave--”
She cut herself off. Ott arched a brow at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze. “You got a friend in here, too?” he asked.
“Something like that,” she muttered. “Anyway, I couldn’t leave him, and I didn’t manage to get him free in time.” She scowled. “And none of the other people even tried to help me. Not even when they could have escaped, too.”
Casting his gaze around the bandit camp once more, Ott could believe it. The mages around them ignored them, curled up into balls as they were and shivering under each sweeping breeze that cut through the camp. The plains behind them similarly sat staring at their hands in their laps or laying on their sides.
Ott had only seen it only a few times before, but it was enough times to be familiar with the hopelessness prevailing through the camp. He even figured he probably knew the cause. The Dryans likely didn’t care about a slave operation, especially not if whatever the prisoners were mining here benefited them somehow. Double especially if the bandits weren’t capturing anyone from inside Dryan’s borders. Telldor and Yve, the nearest nations other than Fris, wouldn’t risk sending forces into Dryan, even to rescue their citizens. And Fris had bigger problems with the Empire right now than a few of their citizens captured by bandits inside their neighbor’s borders.
No one was coming to save these people. And from what little Ott had seen of Esseli, she was going to make it nearly impossible to save themselves. It was a hopeless situation, and most of these people knew it.
Wanily, though--she had tried to escape, failed, and she still didn’t seem half as beaten down as the other prisoners.
It was the most Ott could ask for under the circumstances. “Oh, we’re going to escape, alright,” Ott whispered, grinning. “We’re all going to escape.”