One false step in the dense forests of Vargulia, and the trap snapped shut with a sharp twang. A human figure now dangled helplessly, suspended upside down by a long, rough rope that dug into their ankle. They swayed gently, caught like prey in the intricate snares laid by unseen hands.
The forest around them was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant hoot of an owl. Time dragged on, each minute stretching into eternity as blood rushed to their head. The dim light of the setting sun filtered through the thick canopy, casting long shadows that only deepened the sense of isolation.
Hours passed. The sky above turned from deep orange to a star-speckled black, and the chill of the night began to seep in. Then, faintly at first, came the crunch of branches underfoot—soft, deliberate, and purposeful.
A figure emerged from the darkness, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of grace only the forest-born could manage. As the stranger stepped closer, the faint moonlight caught his features. His skin was a deep, ashen hue, blending with the shadows around him. Long, dark hair framed a sharp face, and his eyes gleamed like molten silver, unreadable and cold.
“So, so…” the man drawled, his voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. “It seems the little bird has gotten itself caught. Can’t wriggle free, can you?”
He stepped closer, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor, until he stood directly before the dangling figure. In the dim light, his pointed ears and angular features marked him unmistakably as a drow—a creature of the underdark, a being both feared and revered.
The drow tilted his head, studying his captive with an air of detached curiosity. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out, his long fingers brushing against the human’s cheek. His touch was surprisingly warm for someone who looked carved from night itself.
“What should I do with you?” he murmured, almost to himself, though his tone carried a faint edge of menace.