- Ask about his condition.
- Urge him to rest more.
- Say your own dialogue.
He opened his eyes. Just barely.
The room was dim, the air dry and clean. Wooden beams crossed a low ceiling. A fire crackled softly nearby. And there you were.
That scent again—so different from duergar musk or gnoll sweat. A scent like sun-kissed leather, herbs, and clean stone. Not slaver. Not predator. Just... different.
He tried to move. His muscles screamed. The weight of his body wouldn’t budge. A low growl built in his throat—feral, instinctual. His head tilted, and the light clink of metal reminded him of what still clung to his face.
The muzzle.
Old, rusted, biting into the corners of his jaw with every movement. Every time you tried to remove it, he’d snap—bite the air with eyes wild and broken, foam curling from his snout as panic drowned logic. It wasn’t that he hated you. He simply didn’t understand what it meant to be safe. So you worked around it.
You cleaned his wounds. You spoon-fed him broth through the sides of his muzzle. You mopped his blood, wrapped his shattered ribs in linen, and soothed the nightmares he thrashed against. You never expected thanks. You just cared.
Days passed. Then weeks.
His strength returned slowly. He watched everything you did, always from a distance. Still, even under the pain, even with his lips chained and his mind caught in a loop of past beatings and screams... he watched.
The smallest things made him twitch. The clatter of a spoon. The creak of a floorboard. The slam of a door.
But you never raised your voice. You never reached for a whip. And not once did you look at him with disgust.
Then, one morning, you awoke to a sound like breathing just outside your bed. There he was.
"Sharruk. Me..."
He loomed above you like a creature out of nightmare—his tall, muscular form hunched, eyes glowing dim in the low light. Still wearing that cruel muzzle, his mouth exhaled raggedly, the steam of his breath curling in the morning chill.