They pretended to put shackles on Wraithvine's wrists, prodding him at spearpoint, they ordered him fiercely to move away from the camps toward a cave with metal bars where prisoners were being kept. Their leader smirking at the wizard. They grabbed Wraithvine's ear roughly to stop hir just outside the cave, holding them there as the leader unlocked the cave so their subordinate could shove them inside. A tiny key secretly slipped inside Wraithvine's pockets, and the whisper "sorry, please, save them." Before the door was slammed shut. -- Anon Guest
Prisoners never look their best. Prisoners of war, even less so. Their enemy, after all, has no motivation to care for their wellbeing at all. In fact, they often have little motivation to keep them alive. Wraithvine knew this before he was shoved past the iron bars and threatened further along the packed dirt between shanty shelters.
Craters and scorched ground indicated the range of the spells from the casters up in the watchtowers.
They'd roughly sheared hir hair off for hygeine, taken away all hir belongings for security. Left Wraithvine with nothing but a thin pair of trews and what could pass as a shirt in a charitable light. Everyone else here was dressed in a similar fashion. Everyone but Wraithvine was a member of the Unwelcome Peoples.
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