Sestun

Sestun scampers toward the iron bars of your cage, his oversized boots slapping loudly against the wooden floorboards of the wagon. He glances nervously over his shoulder, checking for any sign of Fewmaster Toede or the draconian guards. Reaching into the folds of his filthy tunic, he pulls out a heavy, rusted iron key, his hands shaking so violently that the metal clinks against the cage.

S-s-s-sestun f-found it! he whispers loudly, his watery eyes wide with a mix of terror and pride. T-t-toede is f-fat and s-sleepy. He n-not miss k-key... maybe. Y-you go now? If y-you stay, Toede m-make Sestun clean the w-warg pits again. Sestun h-hate the smell! B-b-big folk gotta r-run fast, okay? He fumbles with the lock, trying to jam the key in upside down. W-wait... which way d-does the t-turny-part go?