Jag lay there in the cramped, dirty hut, staring out blankly at the dark green trees and the vibrantly blue sky. The morning sun shone right into the tent, warming Jag's sore body like a natural blanket. The warmth was more than welcome, since the only thing Jag was wearing was a simple loincloth. The nights were ruthlessly cold - a consequence of being in the mountains - and one of the first things the trolls had done during the first night of captivity was remove all of Jag's gear and toss it away somewhere.
Jag remained staring out at the scene outside the hut, not wanting or caring to move. There was no point. The colors with which outside was painted seemed duller, and it hurt to think, let alone move. It was an absolutely beautiful day, just like the day he and his friends had charged into Jintha'alor, but all the hope and joy that came with a day like this had gone away never to return. Jag would never be able to appreciate a perfectly sunny day such as this ever again. They had become permanently stained with the memories of his wife's barbaric murder and the start of his own brutal captivity.
Jag had no recollection of how long he'd been in Jintha'alor. The days bled into each other, and the nights seemed to never end. The trolls rarely fed him (he barely ate), and they only let him out of the hut when it was time to be beaten or tortured in one way or another. At this point, he was in pain just laying there on the floor, but it was worlds better than when he was made to sit, stand, or walk. Any thought to attempt any kind of escape had left his mind days ago (or was it weeks?). He'd never get passed the big troll guards right outside the hut, in any case.
Jag was just in constant pain, no matter how he existed. Even trying to think about happier times, places, or things didn't help at all. Happier times almost always included Jaina, and happier places and things would never be as happy as they once were since Jaina would no longer be at his side to experience and enjoy them. No matter what he did, no matter what he thought, Jag was in constant pain. Physical, emotional, psychological pain. It never ended. Jag wondered to himself if it ever would.

The joyless, sunny morning crept on like honey down the side of a jar. It was nearing midday, Jag guessed, and he had yet to be fed some kind of breakfast. No surprise there. "They're probably saving some slop for after my next beating," Jag thought as the mere thought of another beating made all his current bruises - most past dark blue straight on to a grossly yellow-green - act out in awareness. As if Jag had spontaneously acquired a knack for pinpoint foresight, a trio of trolls was suddenly blocking the sunlight at the hut's opening. One scrawny, average-sized troll was flanked by two of the monstrosities Jag had quickly come to associate with pain. "Yah comin' wit us," the scrawny troll said.
"As if I have a choice," Jag thought to say, but didn't. He learned early on that snide or sarcastic remarks would only bring on a harsher beating or degree of torture. So he kept his quip to himself...though he smiled a wee bit on the inside at the thought that he did still retain some of his bite after all the apparent breaking. Hearing no verbal opposition, the scrawny troll made a motion with his right hand and the two hulking troll soldiers entered the hut. Each soldier took a pair of black metal handcuffs and attached one cuff around one of Jag's wrists and the other cuff around one of their own. When all four cuffs were securely clasped, the two troll mutants got up and yanked their cuffed arms upward so as to propel Jag up off the ground into an upright standing position. It worked, but not without causing significant pain to Jag. But this is how it always went. They'd been using the cuffs since the day after Jaina's murder. They knew Jag couldn't be left to walk for himself, not even with his hands held firmly by guards, not even in his now very weakened state. So this is how it went, and this is how Jag traveled to his occasional beating or torture. Cuffed, without a chance of escaping, and in complete pain every step of the way.
"Weh've gaht sumtin speshiale fah ya, tahday," the scrawny troll said after Jag's hut had disappeared behind them. He was behind the cuffed trio. "Id'll beh good tymes," he continued - Jag was sure - with a wide, sneaky grin. All Jag could think of to think about saying was "oh goodie." To be honest, the fact the troll was sounding really excited about today's act or acts of brutality was a sure sign it would be something far worse than the usual treatment. For this reason, Jag wouldn't have said what he was thinking even if he felt the air aura of defiance about him to do so. He was worried. Genuinely scared, even.
A short while later, they had reached their destination. It was a pair of huts on the side of the path facing inward towards a small fire pit that had a fire crackling upon it. The scrawny troll walked ahead of the cuffed trio and guided with a hand gesture to the closer hut. The troll mutants then walked into the hut, involuntarily taking Jag with them. They laid him down on the ground and then each troll used both of their hands to hold one of Jag's arms down to the ground. Jag noticed that they were not uncuffing him. He knew right away why. "Whatever they're about to do to me," Jag deduced, "it's going to be severe and relentless. It might be so bad that I might forget that my chances of running out of this hut are less than zero percent and try to bounce out of here. Because the torture -because this most definitely won't be a beating - is going to be so bad, they don't even want to take that chance, because they want me here, pinned, for the entire duration because this will hurt way more than anything they'd do to me if they had to catch me during an escape attempt." At the dawning of this realization, Jag suddenly went limp. He hadn't fainted, but he didn't want to fight it. Not at all. He would endure it, like he always did. No matter what it was. He would endure.
Because someday he would get rescued. Voudka, Marckus, Kotonoha, Serac, and Jesiach...they'd come back for him. He knew it as surely as his heart still beat. All he had to do was hang in there until they arrived...and not go madly insane or be broken before then. Not that Jag was close to either of these states. Oh no. Jagauric might be terribly and completely sore, but insane he was not. Broken, he was not. Though still thoroughly heartbroken, he was still very strong. And at this moment, he was certainly strong enough to endure these exciting new torture techniques he was about to experience.
With Jag satisfactorily pinned to the ground, the scrawny troll that had walked from Jag's hut to this hut with his cuffed escorts turned and left the hut. Seconds later, a somewhat larger male troll (though not nearly as large as the mutants) entered the hut. He didn't seem too menacing, but Jag knew he would be the one to perform the torturous act. He knelt down behind Jag's head and pulled out a pair of what looked very much like a pair of tweezers. Jag was dumbfounded...but not for long.
"I hope yeh've enjoyed yehr sideburns cuz I'm mah be pluckin' 'em out, hair by hair." the newest inhabitant of the hut said. And with that, without waiting for any verbal response from Jag, he proceeded to begin plucking out Jag's sideburns. The troll, of course, chose to go about this as painfully as possible, yanking back as many hairs at once as he could, never doing it slowly or gently. It hurt, but only for a few seconds each time. His face would be a little sore later on, but this was actually nothing compared to what had come before. While the troll continued plucking out his gray facial hair, Jag remained silent and maintained an expression of passive determination on his face.
A few minutes later, Jag no longer had even a single strand of facial hair remaining on his face. As expected, his face was a little sore in those areas, but nothing he couldn't tolerate mindlessly until it passed. He hadn't yelped or squinted or shouted out in rage once during the entire ordeal. The troll was disappointed. Very disappointed.
Jag saw the "Plucker's" upside-down face show more and more disappointment as the plucking went on. The growing disappointment expressed by the troll only further inspired him not to wince or make any kind of movement or sound. When the plucking was done, the Plucker just stayed there in place knelt over Jag for another few seconds before getting up and walking out of the hut, discouraged. Almost immediately, Jag heard a discussion begin just outside the hut. Unfortunately, he could not make out what they were saying. The crackling of the fire and the leather tarp walls of the hut kept most of the exterior noise from entering the hut. But, Jag could at least tell that there were other trolls waiting outside to see Jag when he came out and from the sound of it, these weren't spectators. These were more likely than not surviving tribe leaders from after the Legion raid's attack on the fortress, and they were very actively discussing something. Jag could only imagine what.