Neville XVII o' clan Kneebreaker
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He snarled as he felt the large hands hoist him into the air over the side of the ship. As the wind beat against his face he snarled in frustration, unable to curse his captors through the filthy rag they had gagged him with.
The halfling struggled with his bonds as he hit water. He wasn't a strong swimmer in the best of conditions and he knew he would have little hope of fighting the current without the use of his limbs.
He pulled furiously at the cords that held his wrists and ankles together behind him as his head sank beneath the waves.
After several long moments he could feel his senses leaving him. As the last bit of air struggled to leave his lungs his mind sent back to what he had seen on the ship: the torture of the others of his clan, his own beatings at the hands of the pirates, the orc laughing as he spat Murie's ear out across the deck. His head swam and his vision narrowed, the edges beginning to fade to a blur of angry red.
Neville didn't know how long he had been away from his senses: hours, days, a week? He woke up on a crude bedroll in a humongous covered wagon of some sort as it rumbled down the road. he was sick with chills and fever had set in; panic threatened to follow but the elderly human woman seated nest to him put a hand to his forehead and spoke strange words in the trade tongue of the bigfolk and city hin.
He tossed weakly but hardly had the strength to sit up, and although he understood little of what was said, her tone soon calmed him. He was soon asleep once more, content with the knowledge that despite his illness he was at least free of his bindings.
As he rested fitfully the old woman turned from the sick halfling and drew a card from the top of a deck she had laid out on a nearby crate. For a moment her eyes widened, "olennar," she cried to her son, who was driving the mule at the front of the small Romani vardo, "we keep this one with us until our return to the camp in the land of the fallen Nars… His destiny awaits him there."