A Halavris And The Hillside

Chapter 1: The Hillside Social Club

Voices. Brynlee could hear voices. Ones that they didn't recognize and with accents not from around here. They came from shadowed figures shifting amongst the light beyond the burlap sack over their head.

The group had gotten a jump on them exiting a pub outside of Perpetua. Shit-faced, exhausted and depressed, Bryn hadn't stood a chance against the band of what they assumed were mercenaries or bounty hunters. A quick strike to the back of the head was all the attackers needed to have them out cold. And now they awoke, bound and blindfolded, in the middle of gods know where.

In front of Bryn, a woman was speaking in a hushed tone. She had a voice that was sweet, warm and full of hope. "They don't look undead." 

"Prince Royke said they wouldn't." A man responded, his voice full of excitement and triumphant as his shadow pushed passed the woman.

Of course, Royke hired them, that son of a bitch heir to the elven throne.

A larger shadow moved forward in Bryn's limited vision. "He also said there was one way to double-check." The leader. The man that spoke, whoever he was, was the leader or at least held enough sway over this group to appear that way. With that powerful yet laid-back nature, he held the most respect amongst these people.

"I'll do it." The first man chirped.

There was movement, then a blade being drawn. Red blood, Bryn needed red blood, and that's what colour it would run. Cold steel met flesh, pain sang down their palm, and thick warm liquid coated their skin. They forced the wound to linger, praying to every god they could think of that he only paid attention to the blood on their hand, not his knife.

There was a pause. "It's red." 

Now, Bryn decided was the best time to make their consciousness known, make it seem as if the slice to the palm had awoken them. The voices all went quiet, and the shadows stilled. Bryn could only guess they were sharing looks and silent words to determine what to do.

A moment passed before a shuffle of footsteps, and the cover over Bryn's eyes was taken off by a pale, heavily tattooed man that reeked of undeath.

Overhead the sun shone down from a clear day sky ringed by towering trees. The sudden light was blinding, and it took every ounce of restraint not to wince at the sting of daylight. They couldn't be far from Perpetua if Royke had hired this band. Judging from the pounding in their skull, it had been a good couple of hours since they'd been jumped. Bryn made a mental note to remember never to drink that much Flying Blind again.

Bryn counted off their company quickly; there were eight of them. Five males and three females of all different races.

Bryn picked out a well-built man dressed in black, silver and gold armour with a symbol of an unknown god on the chest. He appeared human, but his strength and the way he carried his weapons suggested otherwise. In one hand, he held a mace, and in the other, a knife coated with an inky black fluid. This was the man who had cut their hand.

Bryn shifted to the ground. It had been too quiet for too long now, so they tore her orchid-coloured eyes away from the man and said to no one in particular.

"As much as I love being tied up, blindfolded and surrounded by a group of attractive adventurers, would someone like to fill me in on what's going on?"

A towering man, situated a few feet in front of them, arms folded across his chest, nodded. "What's your name?" This voice was the one Bryn had marked as the leader. He wore mostly black with accents of purple. Umbran colours. His long hair hung loosely at his back, and no weapons were visible on him, though the lack of armour suggested he was a mage.