The Second Day

The female gnome lifts up the wounded one and moves him to a dryer spot, as the drow make their way elsewhere. When Borthan approaches, she looks up at him fiercely. There is a look in her eyes like a cornered rat, wild and dangerous. But when he tears off some fabric to use as a bandage, some of her tension seeps out. "Never heard any tallfolk call a dwarf a 'biggun'," she points out, flicking her eyes over to the sleeping dwarf.

His piece of cloth stops the worst of the leaking blood. The cut is not as bad as it looks, not very deep by Borthan's estimate. The gnome chews at her lip uncertainly at his suggestion. "I see. Hm." She thinks it over, with some small hesitation. "Alright. Our names are Topsy and Turvy. I know," she cuts off any attempts to make a joke about it with a wave of her hand. "We're twins. Turvy was drugged by the spider ears. Do you know how long this lasts?"

The Third Day

By the new day, the second gnome is groggily beginning to stir. Turvy remains quiet and avoids looking at the other prisoners, but accepts the gruel offered and tiredly begins to eat. Topsy devours her bowl ravenously.


Once the door area is clear, the priestess opens the door and ushers her prisoners inside. "Inside, blindfolds off, no trouble," she instructs, in a cold no-nonsense voice, sticking her nose up at the prisoners marched past her. The guard with her shuts the door and locks it. "Prepare the first work shift," she orders him. She spares them no more words, and turns to stride out of sight.

The guard outside looks the prisoners over through the window. "Muttmeat, ale breath, and Tweedle Dee." He points his finger at Borthan, Dworic, and Topsy. "Congratulations, you've got a job. Get up. Line up single file."

Topsy gets up, walking over and passing by the newcomers. The new deep gnome whistles and waggles his brows at her, getting less than no response. "Friendly bunch," he says with a smirk, walking deeper into the room and stretching out his arms. "What about the rest of you? Do we get at least a hello?"

There is no response from Turvy, who sleepily slurps down more mushroom gruel and avoids everyone's gaze.

Meanwhile...

Beneath her silken perch, two of the squad of six drow look up at her, as if staring at a dog that started to talk - and oh the irony. "Emergency rations, you say?" He turns and grins at Mister Spide. "Feeling hungry, boy?" He points up at the two cocoons.

To Nilvae's sight, a certain little detail sets her spider apart from all the others. Apart from its sleek black carapace, in contrast to the purple shells of the Lolth-touched spiders of the drow, a tophat and monocle floats above and upon its face. As if sketched onto reality by a child's hand in colored pens; but in truth sketched onto Nilvae's vision by a certain puckish fey.

Mister Spide crawls partway up the wall to regard Nilvae and Muttley. After a cursory examination, Nilvae can almost hear its sinister drawl declaring a lack of interest, and the spider crawls back down to settle near the campfire and enjoy the warmth. "Fine," the drow relents, getting up. He switches into using a silent sign language, which two other members of the squad return as they fall in behind him and they venture out of the camp.