"This, my fine citizens, is what happens when anyone tries to steal from the Zhentarim."

The guard stepped around his captive in the Shadowdale town square, taking slow, deliberate steps like a cat circling his prey just before striking. A small cluster of men, women, and children gathered around on that bright late-summer afternoon as they watched the scene unfold. Every face wore a grim expression, tension held in every body, some children cringing into the embraces of their parents. Whether the crowd was forced to watch or were spellbound by some morbid curiosity, it was difficult to tell. The only certainty was in the action and the message it conveyed.

Tied to a post was a Drow elf... or was he a half-drow? His pointed ears and silvery-white hair were unmistakably Drow. His skin was a smoky grey instead of the typical black pitch. He seemed taller than an average Drow, though his position on his knees with his hands bound above his head to the post made that assessment difficult to gauge. If anyone had bothered to approach him, to push back the strands of hair dampened from sweat and blood from his face, they would encounter startlingly-human brown eyes instead of the unsettling red of a typical Drow as well as the shadow of facial hair beginning to grow on his slender face. 

Jeron Mel'velen, however, kept his head bowed, tried his best to turn his face away from the crowd. The knowledge of all of those eyes on him, looking at him, was almost as bad as the injuries he had sustained since being foolishly caught by the Zhentarim in the area. He had been raised to believe he was a monster, that if anyone looked at him, he would die. The older scars that marked his body were indication that such a notion was reinforced; this was not the first time he had been captured, though this was probably the first time he had been for a reason other than his appearance.

Jeron was stripped away to nothing but his dark trousers; never had his body been so exposed to anyone. He could hear the frightened, confused whispers around him, each sound a catalyst to his death sentence. His back throbbed and stung from the lashes he had received just moments ago, the weight of his back pressed against the post a prolonged agony. Every muscle ached from the beating he had suffered, and every intake of breath was a reminder, sharp like a knife, of his broken rib. How was he going to get out of this one?

In the past, in another land, his captors had been so quick to kill him that one of them didn't realize he was close enough for Jeron to grab the dagger strapped to his belt. The time before, in yet a different place, the ropes that bound him weren't quite tight enough. And the time before, in another town still, he had been young enough to have unwittingly caught the eye of a guard with a desire of a certain type of young flesh, and those terrifying, painful, and humiliating moments had also presented a chance for a breakaway opportunity... 

Jeron was a nomad, never staying in one place for more than a day. He found it a necessary survival skill. Had he known that the Dalelands were overtaken by the Zhentarim, he would have stayed clear of these lands. Perhaps the signs were there and he had been too distracted, too foolish, by the possibility of the treasures he would find at Elminster's dwelling. Whatever the case, he had been spotted, was unable to evade the Zhentarim, had not found the chance to slip from their clutches. Now he firmly believed that he would die this day.

How strange to be so hated yet still have such a strong desire to live...

"This... creature," the guard said, gesturing with an extended arm to Jeron as he engaged his audience, "thought he could enter your lands, our lands, and take something from us. The public beating he received, the lashings... any one of you will receive the same fate if you ever dare such a thing. But I am compassionate; I have given you all a chance to see first-hand what disrespecting Bane and the Zhentarim will do. However, we now have a bigger issue in our hands."

The guard -- messy brown hair and a cruel sneer -- turned to face Jeron. "This creature is Drow. I'm sure you've all heard of their terrifying reputation. Such creatures are like ants -- emerging from the ground, swarming around their prey, leaving nothing behind in their terrifying wake. Where there is one, there are many nearby."

Jeron shuddered. This, at least, was familiar. Trying to explain that he was only half-drow, that he had been raised on the surface, that he had never seen a true Drow elf was a futile experience he had gone through many times in the past. He had long ago determined that humans were incapable of listening to reason when faced with irrational fear. Still, he hated being associated with the likes of beings that had done terrible things he would never have the courage to do. He hated suffering over this misconception. And now it seemed that he would die over it.

"Today, you will witness an execution," the Zhentarim guard said almost mirthfully. "But this Drow won't die right away, not when we can extract some information from the monster. The whereabouts of other nearby Drow, perhaps? Or how about the location of an entrance to the Underdark? Even killing him for the sake of killing him is deserving for the likes of him. Now..."

The guard held out a hand as another approached holding a large, heavy set of metal pincers. The first guard took the tool, his gaze slowly assessing Jeron like one would eye a puzzle. The half-drow glanced up, his expression grim but his eyes showing full fear.

"Perhaps, if we pinch off bits of this Drow, finger by finger, toe by toe, we could gain some information."

There were several gasps in the crowd, a restless stirring rippling through the growing throng of people. It was one thing to watch a Drow die; it was another to see him slowly tortured. 

Jeron began to squirm despite his body's protests with pain. Though he was on his knees, his ankles were firmly tied to the post in such a way that would leave him unable to even climb to his feet. The best he could do was sway and buck against the post, tearing up his already-shredded back in the process. What he wouldn't give to know enough magic to somehow break free from these bonds, to fly away... Or, better yet, how sweet revenge must feel to cast flames upon the wretched man with the pliers...

The half-drow's futile struggling to break free only seemed to encourage the guard. He stepped forward, reaching up to hold still one of Jeron's fingers with one hand as he positioned the pincers with the other. "It's not too late to confess what you know about your comrades," he drawled.

Jeron pulled with all of his might against his bonds, the lean muscles of his body straining. "I told you," he gasped. "I don't know--"
"Wrong answer..."