Myrill’s footsteps echoed in the tight confines of the tunnel road as the drow wound her way through the passages with care. The road she took was a far cry from the skillfully carved subterranean highways that connected the cavern cities of the dark elves; around her was bare rock, making use of natural fissures and caves wherever possible, only occasionally touched by the slave’s pick or the stoneworker’s chisel where necessary. She held her glowstone high in one hand, keen eyes alert for any loose stones in the cavern ceiling above or crevices, hidden underfoot invisible in the darkness until one stumbled in.

In her other hand, the drow held her hand-crossbow ready. Though this wasn’t quite the deep places of lore, there were still were plenty of foul creatures in the wild caves and tunnels that might attack a lone, unwary traveler. In fact, Myrill was certain there was at least one such beast in the area, otherwise the professional huntress would not have been called here by the locals.

Coming to a junction in the cavern, Myrill paused to examine the walls. At the fork, someone had roughly carved a hodgepodge of glyphs into the walls, to guide travelers. To the right, one larger collection of letters gave a name: “Brataer’s Folly”. A crude signpost, but it told the huntress she was on the right path.

A little further along the tunnels, she got another sign that she was getting close; the scratches of picks on the walls became more frequent. In places, side tunnels were craved into the walls, branching off in different directions. She was given to understand that Brataer’s Folly had started as a mining colony, chasing after a seam of dark iron that had never materialized save a few traces here and there. Most of the colonists had left, but a small community, less than a hundred or so, stayed behind; some prospectors still chasing the dream of finding the phantom lode, others dregs and cast outs from the larger caverns with nowhere else to go, scrabbling a hard living farming cave fungus on the frontier of the drow queendom.

The community was smaller still, at least half a dozen as Myrill had heard it. Drow going missing in the back caverns, enough to spook the villagers to sending a runner through the caverns to the closest cavern garrison, requesting they send a huntress to help them. Which was how Myrill had found herself following these winding tunnels towards Brataer’s Folly now.

A couple miles further on, the tunnel widened out into a full cave. A rock wall cut across the far end of the chamber, blocking the tunnel entrance from the larger chamber just past it. As Myrill rounded the corner, she got her first glimpse at the town she had come to save.

“What an absolute shithole.” Myrill thought to herself, with a snort of contempt. At first she hardly recognized it as a drow settlement. It looked more like the crude habitations of a goblin tribe, or the troglodytes down in the deep caverns. There were only two constructed buildings; made of expensive timber from the surface, so likely leftovers from the early days of the mining colony. One, judging from the sounds of music and loud inebriation coming from inside, was the settlement’s local drinking hole. The other seemed to be some combination of community center, marketplace and storehouse. Around the edges of the cave, the inhabitants had scratched out crude hovels for themselves in the rock walls, with ragged, threadbare cloth hangings covering the entrances in place of proper doors.

As Myrill was looking over the disheartening site and wondering if it might be better to head back and let whatever beast devour the rest of this sorry assembly, another drow came out of one of the hovels and spotted her.

Giving a shout, the other drow ran up. “Halloo, stranger!” She called. The two stopped, a few paces apart, and eyed each other curiously. Both stood in stark contrast to the other.

The local was a young female, a decade or two shy of adulthood. Her pale white hair was tied back in braids that fell across her shoulders. She had on a pair breeches sewn from half-tanned cavern worm hide, but was bare foot and bare chested. A length of fungal thread rope was tied around her waist, into which was stuck a knife, dull steel rather than dark iron, and a metal scraper, for harvesting the fungus from cave walls.      

Myrill, by contrast, was dressed in a cuirass of finely tanned troll hide, dyed a dark purple, over a tunic of fine spidersilk thread. It was belted at the waist with a dyed leather band, from which hung her own dagger, a large, curved black iron hunting blade, and several leather pouches and satchels, containing the tools of her trade: steel traps, baits and musks to attract a variety of cave monsters, a compound to neutralize her own scent, and potions and unguents for healing injuries. A huntresses’ cloak, of purple dyed silk, was fastened at her neck with a silver clasp in the shape of spider. Her hair, likewise pure white, was cut short and back.

“Well, I’d be as dumb as a goblin if I didn’t recognize straight away you’re the huntress we sent for, right?” The local girl said, grinning. Myrill said nothing, merely nodding. “I’ll take you to old Hecka straight away. She’s the closest was got to a matriarch in these caverns. She’ll tell you what is.” She continued, turning and heading down the trail towards the center of the town. “I’m Kaethi.” The local offered. “What’s your name?”

“Myrill.” The huntress offered, following her. To her disappointment, her self-appointed guide headed, not to the building she’d taken for the town hall, but towards the tavern. From a dozen paces away, Myrill’s nose told her she wouldn’t find any of the wines or ales from the surface races her, nor the refined distilled moonshine of the cities. Here, they served fungal beer, noxious stuff, brewed from whatever lichens and fungi were available, the sole aim creating a potent concoction to render one oblivious to the world. Any other effects, not to mention taste or odder, were of secondary, if any, concern.

Inside, around two dozen drow women, most of the town’s population Myrill guessed sardonically, were clustered around five or six makeshift tables fashioned from old barrels and supply crates, drinking the tavern’s foul brew. In the back, a bartender filled leather mugs from an open topped barrel filled with more of the same. A single male server carried them to whichever drow shouted the loudest that she was empty.

“Old Hecka!” Kaethi called, pitching her voice to try and cut through the chatter. “The huntress is here!” Her words brought a number of the locals over to the two. Right away, Myrill guessed which one was the not-Matriarch of Brataer’s Folly; a tall, broad shouldered drow, a few decades older than most of the others, but far from the old crones most Matriarchs were. Her only symbol of leadership seemed to be a vest of red-dyed spidersilk vest, worn and stained in places, but worn with pride compared to the rough homespun and hides the other locals wore.

“This here’s Myrill, the Huntress.” Kaethi told Hecka, who eyed Myrill was an unsteady eye, likely the result of the nearly empty mug of fungal beer.

“So you’re the one whosss gonna find wha’sss been gnawwin’ me mates?” Hecka slurred at Myrill. The huntress thought a moment and thought a simple nod would be best. “Thassshh good. Can’t have many more getting eaten. Ain’t much a us left!” From the way the rest of the drow around her laughed, hunched over, tears streaming from their eyes, this was apparently a hilarious joke. Myrill stood, stone faced, waiting for the other drow to recover.

“Alright. Heress wha we’ll do…” Hecka said. “Firsht, we’ll haves ourshelves some drinksh. You can resht after your journey ‘ere.” She turned and waved for the server to bring over some fresh mugs. “Then, we’ll go find tha beasties…”

“um…” Myrill stammered as a leather mug was thrust into her hand. She stared down at the thick, worryingly green liquid sloshing within. “I think it would be best if I headed out now. I’m warmed up and I’d like to get out there while the trail is still relatively fresh. Where was the last person who got taken?” She asked, handing her mug to a passing drunk who accepted her good fortune with slurred thanks.

“And the sooner I get started, the sooner I can get out of here.” She added in her mind.  

“Oh, that would be poor Joaka.” Hecka said, taking a long pull from the mug. “Sshe wassh up in a lower-north tunnelsh. Shaid she wassh gonna walk about, sshhee what shhe could find in the old mine worksh. Shtill some dark iron in the tunnels. Girl can make a bit of coin grubbin’ it out. Ain’t enough for the company, but it’sh enough for ush to get by.”

“Then I’ll start there.” Myrill said with a nod.

“I’ll sheend old Taggi ‘long wit you. Sshhee knowsh the old mine better ‘en her own…thingie.” Hecka said. She gestured to another table. Another drow, drunker then her, lurched to her feet and staggered in the direction of them a few paces before stumbling over another recumbent drunk.  

“I…I’m sure if you give me directions, I can find my way.” Myrill said quickly.

“The last thing I need is some drunk yokel clomping around, giving us away.” She thought.

Directions proved just as hard for the inebriated drow as walking. For the next fifteen minutes, she struggled to hold half a dozen different directions shouted at her by the helpful bar patrons, while trying, without much luck, to clear up certain landmarks such as “that cave where Big Kytheon used to live” and “the tunnel where ol’ Favai caught Uli and Hadar naked and sweaty…”

Finally, Myrill thought she had things straight enough, at least to get her in the right, general cavern and was about to head back out, when the server spoke up. “If you’re heading up to the old mine, try and watch out. Goblins moved into the old works a while back.”

“Goblins?” Myrill asked, fighting the urge to smirk at the male’s concern. There were a few goblin tribes, living on the borders of the Empire. They existed only on the sufferance of the Empress and only because they paid tithe to their betters in slaves. The small, green figures, chained and collared, were a common enough site in the quarters of the poorer drow who couldn’t afford slaves captured from the surface races. Myrill hadn’t heard of any of those tribes causing trouble. They knew the Empire would only crush and enslave them anyway. The way goblins bred, giving up a few hundred daughters each month in tribute was a small price.

“Yep. Nasty little brutes. Careful you don’t turn your back on them, ma’am.” The male told her.

“Thanks, but I’ve hunted cave trolls and giant spiders. I think I can handle a few goblins.” Myrill replied. She turned and stepped back out of the tavern. After taking a second to orient herself and spot the large stalactite that was the first landmark in the directions she’d been given, the drow huntress headed off into the wild tunnels.

Despite her weariness, a sense of calm purpose came over Myrill. She was in her element now, creeping through the dark, empty tunnels, just her and some, unknown beast waiting in the shadows. Hunter and hunted. Which one she was would depend entirely on her skills.

As the huntress came to the spot where the missing drow had last been reported, she paused a second.
With a word of command, the drow extinguished the light of her glowstone. All it would do would give her position away to any lurking creatures and blind her to the shadows. She would have to rely on her other senses; touch, smell, and most important, hearing.

From her belt, Myrill drew a small, glass flask. Uncorking it, she raised the bottle to her lips and poured a few drops of the brew inside onto her tongue. The potion of Beast’s Sense worked immediately. In an instant, all of her senses were magnified tenfold.

The first few times Myrill had used the potion as a novice huntress, the sudden riot of sound and smell had overwhelmed her. Even now, she had to pause a moment to get her bearings straight once more. When it did, however, the cave was suddenly lit up. By concentrating on the natural sounds of the tunnels, echoing off the rock walls, by feeling the changes in air pressure as she passed from narrow passage to large chamber, Myrill could get a good feel for the layout of the caves around her, guiding her as she slowly crept down the tunnel.

The huntress sniffed, her amplified nose picking up the smells of the mine. The missing drow’s smell was still fairly fresh. She’d come this way, occasionally picking at the tunnel walls with a chisel, looking for traces of dark iron, silver or any other ores that could be worth a few coins mined out. The freshly broken rock had a sharper smell then the rest of the tunnel surrounding her.

And everywhere, all around Myrill, she could smell the pungent musk of goblins. Hundreds of scents, some fresh, some hours or days old, crisscrossed the space. Even her magically enhanced scences couldn’t distinguish them. Had a dozen goblins milled about the tunnels, or a hundred goblins passed through? It seemed the villagers were correct that the diminutive creatures had taken up residence in this cavern network.

It would make it far harder for her to pick out the smell of whatever monster had attacked the drow with the stench of goblin overwhelming her senses. Cradled in her hands was her crossbow, string drawn, a bolt nocked. It’s dark iron tip slathered with enough cave spider poison to drop a cave troll bull with nothing more than a scratch. If she ran into whatever monster was lurking in the tunnels, Myrill was confident she could kill it with little trouble.

There! Myrill’s keen ears twitched as they picked up the quietest scrabbling of feet on the bare rock floor of the tunnel. A few hundred yards ahead, something else moved in the tunnels. Her own feet, clad in soft, fur boots, made no sound as the huntress crept towards the source of the noise. The source moved slowly, on two feet, following the maze of tunnels, almost lazily, giving no indication it was aware the huntress was behind it and closing fast.

After a minute, the potion of Bestial Sense wore off. In the wake of its power fading, Myrill’s normal senses seemed dull, lifeless. But the huntress didn’t bother pausing to quaff another one. She was close enough even her dull senses could pick up the sounds of the creature as it went its uncaring way.  

Round another bend in the endless, dark tunnels. The creature stopped, waiting for something. Myrill paused, holding her breath in case it had caught her scent, but it didn’t seem alarmed. She was close enough now, she could pick up the sound of the other creature breathing in the tunnel, just ahead of her, light and even.  

One of the drow’s hands fumbled at her belt for her glowstone. The other raised her crossbow. At the last possible moment, she would speak the command word to light the stone. It would take the creature, whatever it was, by surprise, and give her a clean shot. Myrill’s heartbeat was the loudest thing in the cave as she prepared to spring her ambush.

Now! Myrill spoke, raising the glowstone up to throw its light over the length of the tunnel. At the same time, she readied her crossbow to fire. The magical crystal suddenly lit up, as bright as moonlight, dazzling in the dark tunnel. Her finger tightened on trigger…

…and then loosened when she saw, a dozen yards down the tunnel, the creature she had been stalking was a goblin, a female if the ragged, dirty dress it wore was any indication. A pair of large, green ears, disgustingly wide compared to Myrill’s own, slender pointed elven ears, stuck out from a large mop of frazzled black hair, beneath which a pair of large yellow eyes looked at Myrill, most likely stunned by the sudden light and the appearance of the drow huntress.

Myrill relaxed her guard, keeping the crossbow pointed in the general direction of the goblin, without aiming so directly at it. The huntress figured she had nothing to fear from a solitary goblin. She expected the creature would flee in terror as soon as it had overcome it’s shock.

Instead, to the drow’s surprise, the goblin merely turned, favoring the huntress with a large grin filled with sharp, pointed teeth. Then, she opened her mouth and gave a keening wail that echoed through the tunnels.

From all around, dozens of goblins erupted into the tunnel. From carefully dug tunnels and cunningly hidden spider holes, they poured out to surround Myrill. She’d never seen so many of the wretches in one place before. The huntress fired her one shot from the crossbow, hurriedly, at the goblin that had lured her into the trap. The goblin ducked and the bolt clattered against the floor of the tunnel and disappeared into the darkness. Dropping the useless weapon, Myrill fumbled at her belt for her dagger, intending to take as many of the vile wretches as she could down with her.

The huntress didn’t get a chance to draw it. Before she could yank the blade from its scabbard, the goblins surrounding her let fly with half a dozen lassos made of rope braided from cave lichen. Myrill ducked one or two, but the rest found their mark. The goblins expertly yanked the lariats tight, two cinching tight around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides, another around her knees, a third around her neck. Myrill lost her balance and fell, awkwardly to the floor. The goblins swarmed over her.

Myrill squirmed as their clawed hands pawed over her, grabbing at her tools and weapons. Her cloak was unclasped and pulled away. Her belt, with her knife, her tools and potions, was unbuckled and also seized by the greedy goblins. In no time, her tunic and trousers were torn from her body leaving her naked. The goblins chittered excitedly, fighting with one another over the scraps of fine close. Myrill shouted protests, until one of the goblins grew tired of her. Grabbing her head by the hair, he pulled back. As she opened her mouth to cry out, a wad of cloth that had once been part of her underclothing, was stuffed into her mouth. A coil of rope was wound between the drow’s lips, knotted tightly at the back of her head, to keep the makeshift muzzle in.

While some of the goblins continued to fight over the spoils, the others set to work ensuring their captive was helpless. To Myrill’s dismay, more rope appeared in their clawed hands as they descended on her. The lassoes were loosened, half a dozen goblins piling on each of the drow’s limbs, overcoming her struggles as they bound her. Her legs were bound at the knees and below at the ankles, the latter leaving a foot or so of slack cord between each ankle. Her arms were yanked behind her back, forearms placed side by side and lashed together. More rope circled her torso, running above and below her naked breasts, until her arms were trapped in a tight boxtie.

More ropes were tied to the harness. As Myrill was lifted to her feet the goblins grabbed these rope leads, two or three each. The drow huntress grunting angrily into her gag, trying to pull away. Working as a team, the goblins pulled sharply on the leads. Together, their strength overpowered Myrill and she found herself yanked forward. The drow had to step hurriedly, made awkward by the short, halting gait her ankle hobble restricted her to, to keep from toppling over again.

Eventually, Myrill regained her balance. She dug in her heels, pulling against the ropes, grunting angrily into her gag. She strained her arms, struggling to slip free of the bonds. The goblins yanked again, harder, and Myrill was once more forced to stumble forward to keep from being dragged down the tunnel by her goblin captors.

By now, it was quite apparent that the drow was now the captive of the goblins. Despite her best struggles, they’d shown they could force her to move as they wanted. Cheeks burning with shame, Myrill shuffled forward as the goblins tugged once more on their leads.

“I just need to wait for a better opportunity.” Myrill thought, though it was more to mollify her shame at having been taken prisoner by goblins, and so easily. The huntress was doubtful she’d ever have a chance to slip free when surrounded by so many goblins.    

The odd procession, a mob of goblin hunters dancing excitedly around their newly caught drow captive, slowly made its way down the mining tunnels. Myrill shuffled awkwardly; the rope hobble restricted her to short, mincing gait, while having her arms lashed behind her back threw her balance out of whack. Combined with the random tugs the rope leads pulled her in, first to the left, then the right, and always further on, as her captors guided her, or just felt like toying with their helpless plaything, Myrill was forced to devote most of her attention to simply avoiding falling over or smacking her head on the rock ceiling of the tunnels.  

As time drew on, that became harder and harder. Given how quickly the vein of dark iron had run dry, it wasn’t long before they left the large, carefully cut shafts of the mine proper behind. Then it was into the narrow, winding exploratory digs as the miners had dug in vein search for the ore. Finally, they came to tunnels which no Drow hand had touched. The signs of crude goblin tools was plain on the walls as they’d hacked their way through the earth, breaking into the abandoned mineshafts. Here and there, they’d reinforced their tunnels with the odd stolen beam or stonework pillar, looted from the drow works, but more often than not, the tunnels were unsupported at all. Myrill cringed, partly in fear of cave in, and partly because the goblins had dug their tunnels to goblin dimensions, giving little thought to the requirements of any drow captives being dragged through them.

It was something of a relief when, after marching for several hours, they suddenly came through the goblin tunnels and into a larger cavern. That relief was short lived, however, as Myrill saw the goblin town that filled the cavern. It was as if someone had taken Brataer’s Folly, squished it down to goblin size, then stacked half a dozen more such settlements on top of it, literally. The goblins had built high, erecting crude structures of stolen wood, cave beast bone, and woven lichen-thread cloth awnings, six or seven stories tall. This was no mere goblin tribe, but a whole city, living on the edge of the drow frontier!

Myrill soon got a firsthand look at the population of the goblin town. As the hunting party came to the edge of the town, the returning hunters called out, excitedly, in their chittering tongue. In response, hundreds of goblins came surging out of every opening in the buildings, converging on the party in their masses. The caves echoed with the excited babble of goblins as they jumped on one another, jockeying to get close and get a look at the captive drow, half a dozen brawls breaking out here and there. Myrill’s face flushed red with embarrassment, as she was paraded before the hundreds of peering yellow eyes, the hunters fighting against the crowd to keep them back from the handlers leading their prize through the town. Against the press, the hunting party slowed to a crawl. Crossing to the center of the town seemed to take as long as the whole journey through the mines.

At the center of the sprawl was an open square, part marketplace, part meeting spot. Assembled in the middle of it was a large, makeshift rack, made of stout timbers stolen from the mineworks, crudely lashed together with cave-lichen ropes. Hanging from the crossbeam of the rack were the missing drow. The way they squirmed, swaying back and forth from the ropes suspending them told immediately the drow females were alive, and more than a little embarrassed about their predicament. Like Myrill, they’d been stripped bare of any tools or clothes they’d had on them when the goblins had ambushed them.

All of the captives had been bound in different positions, but all equally strict, using yard after yard of lichen-rope with a…Myrill gaped, creativity and almost aesthetic quality the huntress would never have ascribed to goblins. The girl on the left, raised up in a suspended hogtie. Or the cute drow beside her, face mauve with shame. Myrill blushed to as she realized one of the strands of taut rope holding the captive up was tied off to the equally taut cord running across the lips of her sex.

Myrill might have kept looking, dumbfounded, but a tug from the many rope leads binding her reminded the drow huntress she was not here to examine the strange tableau, but to join it. Above her, the other drow whimpered and moaned in distress (and perhaps pleasure from a few with tight crotch-ropes) as Myrill was dragged beneath the rack. Like the huntress, they were all gagged, in a wide array of styles; some with heavy metal and leather pieces stolen or bartered from dwarven or drow slavers, some with cruder wood-and-rope bitgags of goblin fashion. Others, like Myrill, were gagged with cord and bits of torn cloth, likely all that remained of whatever clothing they’d been wearing when captured.

Waiting was another goblin, large for his kind, and evidently in charge of this particular town, judging from the entourage of groveling sycophants, armed bodyguards and chained concubines. He wore robes of drow-made spidersilk cloth, though taken from so many different pieces it almost resembled a jester’s motely. His crown, likely once the prize of some mummer’s company’s costume department, was worn, from passing through so many hands over the years, or months as it might be. The thin gilt had worn in places, showing the tin beneath and many of the glass jewels were cracked. Never the less, he seemed to radiate authority to the goblins around him.

“Another fine catch, you hunters bring Bolg, Goblin King!” He boomed, leering as he inspected Myrilla from every angle. The huntress tried to glare back defiance, but as she was, tightly bound, gagged and completely naked, even this mummer’s-play king seemed less foolish than her. “This good one. Fetch many shinies from Fair Folk. Tie her to rack, tight!, then go get more pretties like her. Then we take all to Fair, trade for shinies!”

The goblin hunters hopped to obey their king’s command. Myrilla was dragged into place, standing under an empty section of the rack. To the drow’s dismay, even more coils of rope appeared in their clawed hands. Some were used to make her bondage more strict. Her legs were lashed together, tighter now, and bent up, until her knees were pressed against her chest, crushing her naked breasts. A rope was looped under her knees and around the back of Myrill’s neck, keeping her curled up into a tight ball. Another rope was attached to the bindings on her ankles, it was run underneath her body, around her buttocks and up to the boxtie holding her arms trapped. An indignant squeal escaped her lips as it was pulled snug against her naked sex. Some clever goblin had tied a number of knots in the rope, at just the right length, so they lay against her bare lips, ready to rub against them as she struggled.

Other, longer ropes were tied off to various parts of Myrill’s bondage, securely anchored. The free ends were tossed over the rope of the rack, ready hands reaching up to seize them. With a loud, cheerful cry, the hunters hauled on the ropes and their captive was lifted up, into the air. The other goblins crowded around, each trying for one lash grope of the naked drow before she rose out of reach, eliciting disappointed groans.

After a minute, Myrill reached the top of the rack. For a brief moment, the huntress was eye-level with the captive beside her who’d been suspended upside down. The two shared brief, worried glances, before Myrill was lifted past eye-level. The captive than hung, suspended above the ground, swaying back and forth, as the ropes holding her up were tied off, securely. For a time, the huntress struggled against her bonds, trying to find some way of slipping free. She quickly gave up that thought. For all their art and craft lacked in other areas, the drow was forced to admit the small creatures had a skill with the slavers ropes. “We should ask for some pointers.” She mumbled into her gag, taking rue amusement at the thought that more than a few Drow Slave Mistresses would have keeled over dead on the spot from shock at the suggestion.

“Besides…” Myrill continued her train of thought. “Even if I got lose, somehow, without falling and breaking something, how am I going to get past that…” Below, the majority of the crowd that had followed her procession of shame through the goblin town had dispersed, some back to their burrows, others to other parts of the market. Plenty though, remained to watch and jeer at the captive drow. More than enough to overpower her.

With glum resignation, the former huntress realized there was nothing she could do. Soon, the hunters would return with another captive or two in tow and after that all of them, goblin hunters and drow captives, would take the long tunnel up to the surface, to the Surface Race’s slave fair at Three Crowns…