the bard's last note

Just like that, his belongings were taken. Slung haphazardly about the sturdy antlers of the reindeer with the gentle clinking of glass against keratin. And then they were moving. The persistent increase in elevation left him struggling to keep his breathing even. He truly was a shell of his former self, who once summited peaks like this with ease. One paw in front of the other, moving up a well worn path that crept up the slope towards a yawning cavern. There was the shelter he'd sought, though now it felt like a mockery of safe haven. Flanked by a titanic wolf and the reindeer, the margin for error brought about by his unsteady gait was slim. He did not want to press his luck by stumbling into Basilisk, lest it be seen as an attack. So he moved as steadily as he could, at a snails pace compared to what was being set by the giant at his side.

Almost instantly upon stepping into the cavern, the breeze that clawed at his overstimulated nerve endings vanished. There was only the comforting weight of his cloak, and the sounds of steps upon cool stone. The lack of response from his captor about the anticipated beginning of his toil was not promising. Pluto knew better than to ask again, to test boundaries to soon after his indenture. The smell of wolves was almost overpowering in the confines of the stone walled tunnels of the cave system, speaking to a strong membership. Underneath it all, that oddly sour-sweet smell. Not like rot, but with the undercurrents of pungent decay that spoke to a deeply rooted blight. It came and went as they moved, all the while Pluto's body screamed for relief from the constant motion of his strides. Currents of air wafting from other entrances? Perhaps individual sources of the illness, victims infected with the mystery plague. He would almost certainly have time to investigate.

The heavy strides of the dark wolf at his side slowed as they approached one of the entryways into an offshoot cavern, no doubt used as a den. There was another scent wafting from in and around the cave, a feminine aroma. The wolf's mate, perhaps? The low, whuffing call that Basilisk issued as he stepped through- entering before Pluto and leaving the reindeer to keep him moving forwards. The skinny runaway crept carefully past the threshold, tipping his head to grant his functional eye a better view of the massive room. It was dark, no doubt its inhabitants were meant to be fast asleep at this hour. His captor directed him to the left in a tone that left no room for argument, and with one careful sweep of his surroundings, he found a short tunnel that led away to his left. "Yes, sir." he said simply, ducking his head and picking up his leaden paws. Without a word of question, he picked his way through the darkened room and towards what would no doubt be his quarters for the duration of his servitude.

Over his shoulder, he could hear the soft lyrics of a she-wolf. Though the exact words remained a mystery, he was a little too far away to pick anything up clearly. The tones were gentle, playful. There was no malice in the echoing whispers of her unintelligible words. So the captive found himself standing in a dark, surprisingly warm space that was larger than a closet, for certain. He swayed lightly on his paws, wheezed around the pain in his chest. The night had been far too eventful, and he was far too exhausted to properly respond to it any longer. Carefully, oh so gingerly, he set himself down on his haunches facing the archway that he'd stepped through. Waiting for orders, for punishment. Whatever followed.

"speaking" -- "in another language"