Since your abduction, time has become blurred. It may have been the sharp blow to your head that left you unconscious. Or perhaps it was the drugs used to that left your senses reeling or the drugs used to incapacitate you through the journey. But the number of days and nights are lost to you. Things have only worsened since Beshaba, the Maid of Misfortune spat upon that fateful day.
Your head swam in and out of coherency. It was dark and difficult to see. You could feel a wire rack beneath your back. Your hands and feet were bound. The smell of waste and sickness assaulted you, threatening to make you gag. And even though you were lying down, the world rolled up and down.
The sounds of breathing along with moans of misery informed you that others were nearby. Further out you could hear creaking all around and still further were the sounds of the ocean. Bit by bit you reasoned out that you were aboard a ship most likely far from home. And in the darkest corners of your confinement, you could see her. A grand lady with snow white hair, gazing upon you. Her face gleamed as she relished the misery permeating the cargo hold.
When you next awoke it was with greater clarity. Beshaba’s visage was replaced with a a ring of keys which swung mockingly with the to and fro of the boat. It was within arm’s reach of the person closest to the hatch. A cruelty that made the man nearest to the keys cry in anguish as he writhed about and strained to reach the means of freedom.
People held in captivity for too long created a stench that nearly overwhelmed the smell of the ocean. And once a day a disgusting gruel was spooned into your mouths along with a little water. It was just enough to keep those that were young and fit alive. The food, water, drugs and motion of the vessel conspired to keep you feeling ill.
Each day was the same. The hated Hafkris, the half orc jailor, would come down and free the young halfling from his cell that he alone occupied. It was not an act of mercy for Greynard Harbottle, just convenience. An extra hand was needed to feed the captive slaves. At least the vile food helped to mark the passage of time.
Then one day something was different. The rocking of the ship was far more turbulent. Water seemed to leak from a variety of places it had not come from before. Whenever the hatch to the deck above opened a spray of the ocean waters will come through. From those brief glimpses of the outside, you could see that it was nearly as dark as it was below deck.
On the following day, Hafkris unchained half of the walking cargo and took them above deck to man the oars. To the astute he had freed those to be of little threat. The more able bodied and larger slaves were left bound below deck. Above, the sharp crack of a whip being liberally applied to keep the rowers in line could be heard.
The next day, a worried Hafkris returned and took another quarter of the remaining slaves above deck. The slaves that had been put to work did not return to the cargo hold. The shouts and cracking of the whip faded to nothing. Only the waves of the ocean crashing upon the deck could be heard. Another night passed and nobody came to feed the remaining slaves.
Right now, you’re waiting for a sign of life from above deck. Your attentiveness is rewarded with a thunderous crash followed by a deep grating, grinding noise. The ship shuddered around you as it ran aground throwing the bunks forward. Everyone is still held firm by the shackles binding you, leaving bruises about your wrists and ankles. Above deck, there’s the sound of snapping spars and another great crash. Water comes down as if from a spigot.
The bow of the galley is shattered upon impact. As the ship grinds to a halt the bow torn asunder. A blast of numbingly cold wind rips through the hold is ripped open by a huge boulder the ship ground against. Finally, it seems to end. Only the sound of the wind, rain and pounding surf can be heard.
Out of the newly opened bow and through the torrential rainfall, you can just make out a beach.
