"Across the trio of realms, they shall pursue you relentlessly for your deeds," he declares.
The outlaw eases himself onto a fallen trunk opposite you, the fire's glow casting an auric shimmer on his bronze-honed axe, his gaze unyielding behind the wooden mask daubed with paint.
You quietly probe the bindings that confine your wrists, yet remain silent. The presence of the remaining brigands lurks behind you, biding time, awaiting their commander's decree to end your existence.
"Rumour has it," the brigand leader begins, "that you have slain your own matron. Northward in Hetch, prior to the devastation wrought by the trolls and Stormraiders."