Be it for thievery, the unlawful use of magic, your genetics, or whatever reason, you find yourself trapped in a freshly made cell in a dungeon. Travok Thornbreak, the dwarf; Trear Oakfell, the elf; and Ashkar Branor, the man. You three have been brought to this dungeon by cart, blindfolded and gagged, you do not know where this dungeon lies.

The fourth, Norixius Tarhun, the dragonborn, was in the cell when you previous three arrived, though by the look of it, he wasn't there long. In fact, he'd only arrived to the cell that morning. The cell itself is carved into the stone that surrounds the dungeon, all but the wall that leads to the hallway made of roughly hewn rock. The bars themselves are brand new, and show no signs of wear.

The stench of the dead, tortured, and dying fill the air, even the guards themselves wear cloth around their mouths and noses to hold off the stink. A young but frail man is huddled in the corner, his dirty rags and abused form giving evidence to the idea that he was the one person in the cell who hadn't just arrived at the dungeon. Aside from his absent murmurring, the sound of the chatter of nearby but out of sight guards, and the wailing of the damned, the sound of a dozen picks against rock reaches out from one of the larger side passages.

A few moments pass, and then the man turns towards the three who'd just arrived, despite having ignored Norixius' presence and any attempts from him to get the man's attention. He doesn't speak, nor does he move from his position, but he stares. At Travok specifically, with the wide-eyed look of an animal inflicted with the desperate hunger of starvation, but there was no malice or ill intention, just pure desperation.