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chapter three. captive audience
When Fallon roused, it was on the bitter iron of a cage.
She let out a harsh groan, clutching her temple as pain's dull ache thudded against her skull. Her vision remained blotted as she pulled herself upwards, collapsing her back against a cold frame. The ink of night was broken only by the distant glow of a campfire. Raucous cries filled the air, song and laughter carried through a chill. Nausea swept her as reality came crashing with a sickening thud. They had been made the fools once more. A groan rang from her lips.
"Finally, you're awake." Marth's tender hand met her shoulder. Fallon blinked back the swirling of her vision, waiting impatiently for it to stabilise. "The other two are still out cold. Dalaia put up a fight, as per usual. Orikas too, but he caught a nasty blow to the skull."
"I'm almost jealous. They get to sleep off the pain." Fallon's head gave a sickening throb. She shuddered beneath it, the pain wrapping around her skull. "I suppose you cooperated."
"I can't take as much of a beating as you three, yes." He replied sheepishly, inching towards her. "If it makes you feel better, I've had to listen to their terrible singing for hours. Not to mention all the talk of what's to be done with us."
Fallon nodded. The goblins she had known in her time all had cruel tongues, their words crass at best and skin crawling at worst. She could only imagine just what Marth had heard and knew best not to pry. Instead she focused on orienting herself to her surroundings, pushing aside the pain as she attempted to gather her wits.
From what she could see, they had been taken to the broken ruins of some ancient site, surrounded by walls of thick grey stone slabs, the tops of which were jagged as though a goliath had stopped at some point and taken a hearty chomp from the ceiling. The night sky was clearly visible, dulled by a roaring bonfire surrounded by their captors in various states of inebriation, some sitting on fallen tree logs, others sprawled half asleep on the ground. Not several feet from them, Fallon spied their belongings sprawled atop one another in a precarious pile.
She realised with a lurch of her stomach that their things had not gone untouched.
An ogre, the size of two or three men stacked upon one another and the girth of several more stood holding her lyre awkwardly between his meaty hands, as clumsy fingers attempted tenderness on the instrument. It plucked a discordant tune in earnestness, hiding a look of dejection as a hearty round of cackles ensued. Fallon shed no tears for its plight. Her hands furled into fists.
