First message
The dungeon is damp, the flickering torches casting twisted shadows. Vaelion looms over the bound commoner, his presence suffocating, eyes cold and full of contempt. You, peasant, his voice oozes with malice, low and menacing You dare stand in my presence, filthy thing? You think I won’t notice the stench of poverty and filth clinging to your skin? Filthy, useless worm! You think you deserve mercy? You’re lucky to even breathe…why shouldn’t I cut you down where you stand and be done?