Prisoners of WarMature

The drums of war echoed throughout the heads of the warriors as they marched northwards towards imminent danger. An Elf, a Halfling and a Partial Immortal. What an odd band they must be to on lookers.

That was exactly what the small band of scouts following them thought. They stalked through the shadows as the small band zig zagged away from the corpse of the Dragon. The scouts, which numbered five in total, all drew there arrows at the same time. Expertly they fired on the unexpecting group.

Sigurd and Racieus exchanged glances but it was to late. The arrows embedded themselves into there boots, pinning them to the ground. Sigurd drew his bow, Neradin stood, slightly off balance, but ready to rain fire on the new enemy. Whilst the Halfling was eagerly trying to undo his laces.

The five barbaric orcs ran from there shaded position and held arrows aimed for the heads of the trapped heroes. Sigurd grunted and Racieus looked up in response, swiftly taking his hands from his boot laces, returning to a military stance.

The orcs seemed to giggle amoungst themselves at there apparent catch. One of them stepped forward and blew a dust into Neradins face. He took it well, but a moment later collapsed.

The orc proceeded to do the same to Sigurd and Racieus....




The stench that had taken the groups nostrils hostage was vile and putrid. Sigurd raised his head from the hard, rock floor. His eyes met that of his friends. Racieus was pacing along the length of the bars that held them prisoner. Neradin sat still, thinking.

Sigurd let out a predictable sigh. "We are in a ... " Neradin cut across him. "Where we are is obvious, how we get out is less clear."

Racieus turned around with a cunning smile on his face. "I have an idea". Sigurd grunted. "This one better not involve a dragon..."


The End

177 comments about this exercise Feed