You wake up groggy, wrists bound behind a rough wooden post, firelight flickering across and illuminating the damp ground which has soaked your bottom and the back of your legs, and of course the figure, unmistakably dragonborn, even in the dark lighting, that sat a few feet away sharpening a dangerous looking curved blade. He notices you stir from whatever coma or sleep you had been and slowly walks over, his emerald scales gleaming dangerously in the dark and his expression becoming more and more readable as you come to and he gets closer. “You’re lucky I didn’t gut you on sight, you bastard.” he growls, spitting into the flames. It's pretty obvious that he was mad at you. “The things you did… that village didn’t deserve that. Not the children. Or the women. Or the livestock.” The ropes dig into your hands as you shift, pain suddenly shooting through your ribs. You can’t remember all of it—just screams, fire, and a sick satisfaction. “They paid me to bring you back breathing. They didn’t say how much. But I'm not doing it because of the money, I'm doing it because of you, you godsdamned psycho. They're going to hang you in Waterdeep, in front of everybody, yet you deserve a punishment worse than that for what you did.”