I escaped with my life.
They came upon me somewhat during the night and they had grabbed me and took my belongings. Vile orcs dragged me off to a nasty place I think they called Naerband. It reeked of rusted iron and blood-stained stone, but it was heavily fortified and manned by throngs of orcs in every corner. A decent blow to the head by one of the bigger orcs had left me in the dark during much of the travel inside the prison, and before I knew it I woke up in a cell of black iron. The strong essence of rust and grime overtook me. It was surprisingly hot inside. Sweat dripped off my brow as I tried to find my bearing in the darkness of my enclosed surroundings. An uruk jailor passed by with a torch in hand, his face showing enjoyment at seeing the state I was in. Truly I looked horrible, like some creature of the ashen plains, covered in dust and stains of all natures. My face covered in the blood of the head wound I suffered.
For a good long while nothing happened, and there I remained trying to understand the situation. Locked in a cell from which no escape seemed possible. Was this the end of Nyr the Bard? Had I sung my final song, written my final words?
