Escape from the Underdark

I lost count how many times the whip-master let us sleep since I last saw my children or wife. I do not know if they yet still breathe. I do not feel the lash of the whip anymore. I wonder… do I even live? Each day, they drag us into the fields. There is no light to work by. We work until our fingers are stained crimson from the thorn-lacerations and splinters driven under the nails. Today, a work…