The venture had started off so well. The party had left with plenty of provisions, torches and rope. Their weapons were honed to a gleaming edge, matched only by their wit. They were a well-rounded group, with a doctor, a cook, men at arms, and more.
But like so many other ventures Baulder had volunteered for, it had all gone wrong in a blink. They had met the mouth of the cave in good spirits. Confident, even. But as the shadows on the rock walls descended and picked them off one by one, bravery gave way to paranoia, then fear. The cleric-a barrel chested man, as handy with the words of nameless gods as he was a sword- was the last to fall. It would be one thing if there were bodies, but the gang's members were simply there one moment, and gone the next.
Baulder had shed a single tear when he noticed the space the cleric had occupied but a moment before was empty. Then he sat upon a rock, drew his whetstone, and began to sharpen his blade. Sparks jumped and danced down the length of the blade, and Baulder kept his eyes to the shadows. Always watching, eyes darting towards every contortion and bend in their depths.
He thought of the face of his friends. Of the family he'd left back home-twelve brothers, and his father. He dragged the whetstone down again, and searched his blade's pits and gleams for an answer. He rose, hefting the sword in front of him, and bellowed into the cave.
"Well? Ain'cha gon' ta' face me, ye' wastrel? I 'taint a coward, nor is my banners yella'. Stand and deh-liver, gods damned ye'!"
His voice echoed into the cave. For a long moment, everything held quite still. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Baulder whiped his sword and let out a cry, it's edge meeting rock. His teeth grinded as he tried to maintain his grip, and he whiped the blade forward.
"I said face me, ye' devil! Answer fer ye' crimes in blood!" he said. The answer he received was stillness, again- and the veberations of his own cry on the rock wall. Baulder took a step forward, and began a slow march down into the dark. As he went to put his foot down, it was gripped taughtly with a muscled tendril. He was yanked off his feet, his sword clattering to the ground as his head slammed on the rock. He felt himself lifting into the air, stars racing his vision as the darkness enveloped him.
Beyond the wall of his own consciousness, Baulder heard the shadows laugh.
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The drop of water landed square between his eyes. Once, twice, and on the third time Baulder woke with a start, attempting to rise. He soon found himself bound over a rock, fresh rope quartering him to stalagmites. Fresh rope he recognized, by color alone, as rope he'd purchased for the expedition. His eyes darted around, but saw little. Wherever he was being bound was lit by a single torch, and only gave him enough light to see his own body. He pulled against the ropes, but realized it was futile, and let his muscles grow slack.
