Rough hands roused Mags from a restless sleep. It was pitch black all around her and she was nestled deep into something delightfully scratchy-soft. She inhaled to get her bearings, letting her keen nose tell her where she was. It smelled of damp straw and mold here, and cold, ancient stone.
As the four dejected goblins trudged along the rock-strewn path from the caves, Tulip stared at the iron band around her forearm, her heart guttering like a slowly blown out candle flame.