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They dared to sell you into slavery? You? A member of their own race? So, you're banished from the elven kingdoms and sold under the false pretext of “excessive violence”. It's not like anyelf died... Well, maybe a few dozen toothless grins, a dozen broken bones, and one or two comas...
The affair would probably have ended with a simple banishment if one of the victims hadn't been of royal blood. Branded on the shoulder, you suffered the only punishment worse than mere banishment: slavery under the rule of barbarian races, in this case, humans.
Your new owners themselves eventually parted ways with you after some unfortunate misadventures and were only too happy to resell you as a galley slave. Your body, tanned by the sea spray, grew muscular from forced labor and hardened against the lash.
From your oar bench, you glimpse the rugged mountains of the nearby continent and have overheard the guards mention the name of the Boût range. You have never felt so close to your homeland during these long years of exile. A wave of nostalgia grips your heart, and you yearn for your freedom more than ever as the familiar mountains disappear beneath a curtain of rain.
The sea quickly becomes raging, and the galley pitches and rolls more and more. The sailors' shouts echo as the slaves groan, soaked to the bone, barely protected from the elements by their rags.
“Alert!” a panicked voice yell.
You have no idea who shouted that or why. Perhaps a slave has escaped? It would be difficult, chained as you are to your oar benches. But it gives you a clue. In the chaos of a dark sky streaked with lightning, you suddenly rise after a jailer passes and grab his ankle.
The man falls heavily, his cry lost in the surrounding din as a bestial roar drowns out even the thunder. Without a thought for the mysterious sea monster that might be uttering such a cry, you pull at your leg and bring your victim's neck within reach of your powerful arms. Clamping his throat until he loses consciousness, you swiftly grab the keys to your shackles and free yourself.
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Some of the slaves beside you, previously resigned, reach out their hands, yearning for freedom, toward the hope you represent. Others shrink back, fully aware that trying to swim for liberty or attempting to seize control of the ship were merely two paths to suicide. You toss the keys to one of the beggars and leave your bench, almost crawling to conceal your movement.
The cries intensify: they are cries of terror, not the alarm you feared. What appears to be a red flash ignites the stern of the ship. The sounds of weapons clash, and a clear cry, repeated more and more frequently, informs you of the nature of the threat:
“D...Dragon!”
It was neither a sea monster nor a common creature of these parts. Why would a dragon attack a ship in the open sea? Had it settled in the area and was it looking for some fun, braving the storm to attack an isolated vessel?
The charred and lacerated body of a sailor crashed brutally before your feet. His clenched hand still clutches a boarding axe, its edge slightly dulled by the monster's scales. You quickly seize it, reassured by the weight of a weapon in your hands. With a pragmatic reflex, you grab the dead man's purse and attach it to the crude rope that serves as your belt.
Thus, prepared for combat, you raise your gaze to the carnage. Illuminated by the burning ship, the beast's reptilian eyes meet yours for a brief moment before its attention is diverted by a survivor desperate enough to attempt a final attack.
This brief contact has robbed you of any hope of victory: not here, not under these circumstances. Without further ado, you leap into the water toward the shore and swim with all your might. You spare no glance at the burning ship on which your former captors and unfortunate companions perish, in a futile struggle against the ultimate predator.
It's all in vain: its bloody feast finished, the monster spots you despite the storm and the raging waves. You feel a claw tear at your back as enormous talons snatch you into the sky. Clearly, you'll be dessert rather than the main course.
With a few powerful wingbeats, you find yourself above the clouds, then below them again, flying low over the mountains. The monster seems to relish zigzagging between the peaks and diving down into the wild little valleys that dot the Boût range.
A wave of anger surges through you at the thought of ending up like this. Gathering your natural Elven magic, you imbue your axe with a fierce wind that sharpens its edge and increases its speed, then you strike the beast's belly scales with vicious force. Reduce your current Magic to 0.
To your surprise, the creature lets out a roar of rage and unsheathes its claws. You realize your impulsiveness too late as you plummet to the distant ground below.
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