Eleanor
First time in another country. They didn't really like leaving Northwind, as it was a good hub for destruction, especially for a a person who took the moral high ground in the lowest of ways like Ilarie did, the young halfling also known as Diablo. Of course, that was their alter-ego. Differentiating between the hyperdestructive anarchist Diablo and the young mysterious Ilarie Racovita was vital for both of their existence.


This time, like most of the time when they were out on the town, this was a business trip. As said they typically don't leave Northwind, but they'd gotten a few leads from less motivated activists that there was a ring of richer humans that liked to keep halfling like themselves as pets, which absolutely didn't slide. They'd traveled to Astoria as Ilarie to check it out. Once they'd found out what they needed, the plan was to set a abandoned tavern Which had been their hiding spot as of late, free any halflings present and get out, simple in-and-out mission. As usual, it happens at night; where filth breathes. 


Diablo dressed in their usual, a black leather/cloth ensemble that covered them head to toe, only deep, aggressive brown eyes seeable. The costume was perfect in the dead night, and with the red dagger they were prone to use in a slit style pocket on their thigh, it was go time. This particular mission required a little more than usual, three bottles of rum and six small Flint stones to stoke the fire. Diablo didn't mind using rum; didn't drink, it's only use to them was being the perfect fire starter.

They made it to the building unseen as usual, and as expected, there was a meeting of those filth. The light of the abandoned tavern was low, not bringing suspicion on itself unless you were a regular of the alley, or knew what was happening. 


They quickly made their way to a window, looking through, dark disguise blending them in. As expected the floors of the tavern were slick and shiny with booze, old and new from the old bastards having a jolly good time while their people suffered. They hoped each and everyone of them burned until nothing but bones were left. Now here came the hard part, making the molotov's. They opened one bottle of rum at a time, pouring one third of the wooden framed building and taking the two of the Flint and covering them with a rum soaked cloth. They did this two more times before lighting one and throwing it in. 


Immediate uproar; exactly what the Diablo wanted. The men in there screamed, desperate to get out the building but stuck in fear. Diablo wouldn't let them out anyway, they went up to the door and threw another bottle on the door, and it was engulfed with flame. Beautiful. They wouldn't even need the third bottle, take it with them and use if for a later mission.

They walked away, the orange flames lighting up their eyes as they smiled a demon's grin-


Suddenly there were hands on them. Rough- trying to take them down. Had Diablo buy the forearms, the couldn't claw at the hands or reach for their knife. Shoved to the ground. Still fighting it. Chains.


*The devil was caught.*


The legacy was over, and Ilarie was destined to rot in prison, hang or worse- be a toy for the very people they fought against. How pathetic.


They woke up in a cell. Arms chained to the wall. Nowhere to go, nobody there to save them.
Brad
To call the basement Illarie was staying in "A cell" Wouldn't really be accurate statement. Sure, there were bars, but the genuine state of decay left them crooked, snapped and rusty, like bloody spears in the dirt. There was a bench beside her, warped and brittle from its prolonged exposure to the damp atmosphere, and whatever was growing from it must have been responsible for the musky smell that filled the room. The place was in disarray, illuminated only about five or six candles scattered around the room. The only thing that didn't seem to be falling apart were the chains around the halfling's wrists. They were steel shackles bolted to the wall, not a spot of rust. 

If she squinted, she could see about four or five figured hunched over a table, passing tossing something into the center. Their voices were hushed, but a small conversation could be heard. 

"Quinn, you _do_ know you're terrible at hiding that ace in your sleeve, right?" A thin man leaned forwards, placing his head in the palm of his hand.

"W-what? Listen 'ere, you fuckin' ass, just because you're some shite at cards dun''t mean you c'n accu—" 

A large figure reached across the table and gripped the arm of the defensive man, shaking the contents of his sleeve onto the table. 

"Five aces, Quinn?" The large man visibly sighed and fall back into his seat, it straining against his bulky form. 

The thin man threw his cards down onto the table. His free hand went out from under his head and formed an accusatory finger, aimed directly at Quinn.. "Piece of shit! This is why we never play cards with you. What are you doing with _five_ aces anyways. I have two in my hands and..." The thin man leaned over the table, viewing Quinn's hand, "They're not even the same make. Were you _betting_ on us being in a dark room?"

_"Piece of shit!"_ Another form repeated, this one significantly more squat. It looked as if it was standing on top of it's chair, and it's hand of cards was also thrown into the center. 

The final figure also deposited it's cards into the center. This was one lithe, a chopped bob of hair with a longbow slung across it's back. It said nothing. 

"Listen, listen, okay, I've saved all'a yer lives on multiple occasions, and I just thi—" The bulky figure stood from its spot at the table and unsheathed a machete. "Listen, listen, listen, listen, listen!" Quinn's voice did not show any signs of fear, but did pick up in speed, "We weren't even really bettin' for real coin. You all know I wouldn't screw you out of any _real_ coin. I was mostly just "Tryin' out a new technique. No 'arm no foul yeah?" None of these justifications seemed to stop the bulky figure from rounding the table and wrapping a large hand around Quinn's neck. 

"I, for one, have never trusted you." His grip tightened as Quinn's feet began to raise from the ground. Quinn's head shifted to the side as he began to search the table for something to smack his co-worker with, but instead, caught a glance of their prisoner rousing from her slumber. 

"Sh-she's awake, boys." Quinn rasped. The bulky figure gave a brief glance to the drow before dropping Quinn on the ground, sent clutching his throat and taking in laboured, wheezing breaths. 

"Awake?" The thin figure stood from the table and began wiping his hands on his pants. "Well, it's about time. Mathis, find a torch and light this place up."

The bulky figure gave a nod and moved to the corner of the room. He was now obscured from view, but rustling could be heard. Suddenly, the room was alight, a soft yellow glow emanating from the torch.

"Wake up, drow."
Eleanor
They'd woken up a while ago, just long enough to hear most of their conversation. They were playing cards. Ilarie wasn't a fan although they knew the game from hanging in sleazy bars with people they didn't need to around if they weren't Diablo. While awake, they'd studied the room the best they could in the fun lighting. The outlines of objects and the slight smell of rust proved this place even worse than a country's prison.


They had no idea where they were, or who they were with. From the racket the others were making Ilarie guessed three. One was named Quinn, another named Mathis. Presumably, two out of three were male, with the one being 'Quinn' didn't have a recognizable pronoun or at least, they hadn't heard one. But- Ilarie was still a novice at the language, it not being the first one they learned. Even then, they weren't one to judge based on such petty things as gender. Something they did judge in was fact. And they would concur that these idiots we, most likely the bottom of the barrel for whatever they worked for. And, they were absolutely sure that Diablo was female, which wasn't the case. It didn't matter at this point.


They looked up, cold eyes searching the figure for any information that could be of use to them. The person, most likely the Mathis called them Drow. Their ears weren't covered, and without the fair skin pompous Elves carry, that presumably was what they thought. "I am not Drow. Nor am I she. What do you low class heathens want from Diablo?" They asked, thick foreign accent in their words.