After the magic trap had knocked us out, we were captured by a gnoll shaman – I can only describe him as monstrous. His clothes were decorated with bones and animal skins, his teeth were as sharp as knives. But the worst were the tools he prepared – thin, razor-sharp blades that made your blood run cold. Nearby lay a desiccated gnoll skull, covered with runes I didn’t understand.
The shaman turned slowly towards us, the scalpel menacingly in his hand. In the flickering candlelight, I could see rusty stains on the metal as he approached us and spoke in a harsh, deep voice in broken common tongue: „You invaders of dust-blooded lands, you Yeenoghu sacrifice. Your suffering give us great power!“
The shaman’s hyena-like laughter sounded like a foreshadowing of our imminent death. The air was filled with a foul smell and an eerie silence broken only by our shallow breathing.