"Druid Cirron, son of Ilyorn, greets Arch-illusionist Tesmir, Lord of the Guild."

The imposing portals swung open with a dramatic bang. Torchlight cast eerie flickers and long shadows on bare stone walls. Cirron entered the audience hall, knuckles white on the gnarled wood of his staff. His other hand, clenched around a fold of his forest green cloak, soaked sweat into the fabric. He kept his eyes rigidly ahead and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other. The hall was silent save for the quiet crackling of flames, the thud of his staff, and whisper of his robe's hem trailing on the stone floor - the nondescript brown robes that so clearly labeled him a mage of no particular prestige or wealth.

What the Guild Lord could want with him, he had no idea.

One booted foot in front of the other. Stare straight ahead. He didn't let it wander to the vaulted ceiling above, couldn't let it examine - however much he wanted to - the statues of former Guild Masters, carved with austere perfection, flanking the columned walkway. Runes etched on the walls reflected cobalt blue flame in their eyes, bestowing them a glare reminiscent of raptors. The effect little benefited his nerves.

At last he reached the end of the walkway. He dropped to one knee before a pyramidal dais, upon which stood a throne of jade. Upon the throne sat Lord Tesmir, Archmage of the Illusionists. Cirron's first thought was that he was nowhere near as daunting as the preceding Lord Eruditis. Where Eruditis had been tall and dark-skinned, Tesmir was the perfect contrast. He sat bent on the throne, his robes too large for his gaunt frame. He stroked his wisp of beard and looked as impressed with Cirron as Cirron was with him.

"Eruditis is recalled with glory," rasped Lord Tesmir, as though sensing the druid's thoughts. He waved a hand, conjuring an illusion of the former lord in midair. A snap of his fingers, and the illusion was gone. He leaned forward in a shimmer of robes. "But he is dead. Dead as of a threeday ago, in fact. You would do well to remember that, druid."

Cirron swallowed and nodded. There was something distinctly unnerving about this new Guild Lord, almost like an undercurrent of ice. Rumor had it that he'd been responsible for Eruditis's disappearance. The rumor had even led to a brief insurrection, during which two score of mages had renounced the Guild. Those forty mages had vanished that night, never to be heard from again. All protests put aside, the Summit supported Lord Tesmir explicitly.

Recalling that incident, Cirron's anger bubbled to the surface. One of those forty had been a fellow druid, a friend. "To what might I owe this audience, my lord?" he asked stiffly, a polite method of getting to the point.

"You have been presented the honor of attending a banquet as Guild ambassador."

A chill shot up his spine. "A banquet?"

Lord Tesmir bared his teeth in what passed for a grin. "Yes, druid. A banquet."


Whatever this was, it wasn't a banquet.

Cirron rolled over on the cold stone floor and put a hand to his throbbing head. His fingertips came away, smeared in blood, from what seemed like a bump the size of a large marble. Shadows and dim torchlight swam in his vision. The Guild's audience hall...? No, the audience hall's floor was immaculate, not coated in grime. It had no drip-drip of water, and it certainly didn't smell like this. Clenching his teeth, he braced his elbows underneath him and attempted to sit up. The combined effort and stench was enough to make his stomach turn. There was nothing to retch - he hadn't eaten since...

Since when? When, exactly, had it happened? He'd known full well about the banquet and its dire implications. Nowadays, a Guild ambassador was a dead ambassador. In desperation he'd packed his bags to flee the Guild in the dead of the night. He'd barely taken two steps outside the threshold of his quarters, when he'd been jumped and efficiently knocked out.

The first to greet him upon his awakening was a dungeon. This dungeon, in fact.

He propped himself up against the bars of his cell and noticed for the first time that he wasn't alone. This branch of the dungeon, blocked off on both ends by reinforced doors, wasn't large, with only a few cells currently holding a dozen prisoners or less. Mages all, but a diverse crowd nevertheless. He shared his cell with two men, both black-haired and still unconscious on the floor. In the cell across the corridor, he glimpsed a flash of green scales - something that made him jerk to vigilance faster than he would have thought possible. Naga! There was an entire chapter devoted to naga in Chronicles of the Second Age, and ever since he would have killed to meet - and study, if respect allowed - one in flesh.

He mentally punched himself. Strange priorities indeed. Here he was, stuck in a cell in gods knew where, and all he could think about was the thousand-page tome his master had made him read an entire four years ago. Instead he busied himself with studying his prison. The bars did not seem magical in nature. His staff, minorly enchanted, could help him break it. But as soon as his hand closed around the gnarled yew, he knew something was wrong. The staff, usually warm, was frigid to the touch. He placed its tip against the cell bars and channeled its energy.

Nothing happened.

Running his fingers through a mass of long sandy hair, he stared at his staff in bemused frustration. It had never failed him before. Deciding to try another option, he closed his eyes and let both arms drop to his sides. He dove deep within himself, groping for the druidic magic he knew to be sleeping dormant.

Nothing. Where his magic should have filled the recesses of his soul with quiet joy, he found only an empty pit. His magic was gone.

Fear stabbed through him. Clutching his staff as though it were a lifeline, he opened his eyes and regarded the dungeon's shadows in a perspective tenfold more terrifying. He was powerless now to do anything but sit... and wait....

_________________

Close your eyes. Make everything around you invisible, make it disappear. The only thing that exists is you. Now reach...reach inside you...reach for that well of power waiting for use...reach...

Adellis took one last deep, calming breath and her eyes flew open. This was when light flew from her fingertips, this was when it crackled into a bright sphere of light between her outstretched hands. That was what was supposed to happen.

Of course, it didn't. Like it hadn't when she'd tried the first time - and the time after that - and all the times in between that one and this. One more deep breath. It became rather more of a sucked intake of air, as if she might be suffocating, and Adellis abandoned the attempt. Master Fyrhon would have been appalled with her, but she'd never before tried to summon power in a situation such as this - in a situation where it was gone, disappeared as though it had never been. She scrubbed her damp palms on her embroidered indigo tunic, eying the diamond-tipped staff she'd discarded after the first three or four attempts at summoning power. Panic was rising increasingly in her throat, becoming increasingly hard to press down and compact into a knotted ball in her stomach. It threatened to expand and consume her.

Desperate for a distraction, Adellis eyed the bodies sprawled in the cell across the dimly lit corridor. She was alone in her own, something that only reminded her of yet another reason to let panic loose. Master Fyrhon. Last she'd seen him he was waving desperately to her from a balcony, calling words she couldn't hear, and she remembered confusion and sudden fear before her vision swam and went black. She'd ended up in a dungeon, it seemed - had he? Or had it been worse?

The ideal of deep breaths was long abandoned. Adellis found it coming in short gasps and again scanned the dark stone cells from where she knelt. She forced herself to count the sprawled bodies. One - two - three in the cell across the way. That was the one the Naga was in. What had Master Fyrhon always said about Nagas? She couldn't remember, what with wild panic clawing its way through her mind, but she didn't recall it being complimentary. At all. No, no thinking about Nagas. Three more bodies in another stone-walled cubicle. Was that only two, slumped practically on top of each other further down the dank corridor, or was the shapeless mound a few feet away from them a third?

Movement stirred in the corner of her eye, and Adellis tensed. Her grip on the bars, already clenched tight, became white-knuckled. Her breath sounded loud in the frightening quiet, but it was just a bundle in a cell further down the hall that had previously been quiet, stirring. She shifted, dropping into a sitting position on the floor with white boots tucked underneath her and retreating into relative darkness. It was hard to tell who - or what - it was, until Adellis could make out the shape of a staff. She gulped air again and relaxed somewhat, eyes fixed on whoever it was.

He - or she? No, it looked male, she thought, though darkness made it hard to be certain - soon did the same as she, sitting unmoving in the darkness. Adellis watched the figure for another moment, not even considering speech. What if that one turned out to be a Naga, too?

_________________

Profession: Sorcerer
Name:
Gender: Male
Race: Elf
Age: 24 (appears), but he is actually close to 2000
Appearance: His eyes are the most startling thing about him; they are almost pure black, except for silver irises, which make him look very strange. He wears a black tunic, trousers, boots, belt cloak, mantle, and hooded yoke with a silver embroidery; which accents his eyes, making them even more noticable.
Equipment: He carries Elexorien, a sword he found before he joined the Guild and has had ever since. He also carries a dagger, Umethar. Besides those weapons, he relies on his magic and wit to get him out of troubled situations. (Pics of weapons below:)


Other: Nothing I can think of at the moment.

(I'll get my first post up tomorrow; right now, I'm desperatly in need of sleep.)

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

*does my duty and stares at long post*
you know? LDM, you made me check back to the first page to make sure that the "black haired male"-or one of those- meant me. and i assume it meant me, since other ppl (females) have black hair too, but my charries a male. ah im ranting and not making sense.

[they so still have their weapons right?]

Maq was being chased. That was all he knew. Maq was trying to escape. That's all he cared about. Maq had no time to gather about his surroundings. Yet he knew it like he knew his own powers. It was his hometown. But it wasn't. For one, his hometown had been a happy little town where everybody lived in peace and trouble rarely came. This place was different. Desolate buildings, cracked and burned signs, rubble in the streets where a paved road should have been. It wasn't right. It was never right. Yet Maq still came back to it, night after night, to this lonesome, omnious looking town. He didn't know why he kept on coming back to this place, but he did. If there was a meaning in these repeated visits, Maq has yet to decipher it. For the hundredth time, Maq touched the cool, blackened stones that used to be the tavern. Gone. At that moment, a woman's screams filled his ears, and Maq, for the millionth time, fell to his knees, hands dropping his weapons to clutch his head.

There can be no mistake. He knew that voice, even when it was screamed out in a high pitch. It was his sisters. He remembered her frightened eyes, remembered the bloody knife, remembered the maniacal smile, and fire. Burning, destroying fire. And it was coming towards him.

Maq jerked up, cracking his head on the stone wall behind him and sending him stars from above to his eyes. They were pretty. What did that mean? Did it mean that he was finally dead? The pain in his head told him otherwise. He massaged his head, looking around. He was in a cell. Oh. Which meant he was probably in the dungeon underground somewhere. With this realization, Maq grabbed where his weapons should have been, and the were there. Far from relieved, now Maq was confused. He had his weapons. Here he was, in a dungeon, with his weapons. It didn't make sense. But of course it did. No magic. He addressed the awake one of his cellmates, and said, "If you find out a way out, I'd appreciate it and be indebted to you forevermore."

_________________

The first thing Methadox had become aware of upon regaining consciousness was that his head hurt. The second was that his back hurt as well. Further inspection revealed that more or less his entire body ached in some way or another, and that the cause of it was most likely the stone floor on which he was currently lying. Lovely.

With some effort, he had lifted himself up enough to shift to a sitting position with his back up against the stone wall. The next half hour or so had consisted of the discovery that his belt had been relieved of all its usual contents and futile attempts to summon any sort of magic. He'd then tried to stand, which had led to the additional discovery of several interesting bruises and abrasions in various places and a rather deep gash in his leg. Tearing a few strips from the bottom of his cloak - he'd always thought it was too long anyway - he'd immediately set about binding the latter, then settled in for long wait.

He wasn't entirely certain how he'd gotten here, nor where exactly 'here' was, though he had a pretty good idea that it had something to do with the strange banquet invitation he'd received not long ago. He'd heard tales of these 'banquets' and knew full well that those who attended were not heard from again. He'd been urged not to attend by several people, but he had been fairly confident that he would be able to survive whatever their hosts had in store for them. Sitting in a dark, stone cell with naught but his staff and the clothes on his back - and his magic strangely absent - was making him begin to question the validity of that assessment.

Someone in the cell next to him stirred - a young female by the looks of it. He continued to observe with a detached curiosity as she went through more or less the same process he had-- waking up, discovering her powers gone, and then just sitting, though there seemed to be a good bit more panicking involved in the female's process. What he could see of her robes and the staff next to her suggested that she was a sort of mage as well, which he supposed made sense. She also seemed to have sustained a few wounds like his.

"You're bleeding," he observed flatly, not bothering with any sort of formalities.

Adellis nearly jumped several feet into the air. As it was, she started violently, head twisting as if pulled on a string, to give Methadox a wide-eyed blue-violet stare. Evidently one of those shapeless forms on the floor had come to life. Cautiously, she examined him from head to foot. No scales, no odd appendages normally not seen on humans. No cause for alarm? Well, that was one assumption she wasn't quite prepared to make.

Oh, he'd said something, hadn't he? Adellis groped for the memory, eventually coming up with the words but not understanding them until a minute later. This was exacerbated by her grasp on Common, which was generally good enough beyond her slight accent, it being hardly noticeable except in times of stress. This qualified as a stressful time. You're bleeding.

Surprisingly enough, she was. The deep indigo of her tunic was deep crimson instead in a large blotch extending down the length of one arm. As if on cue, pain lanced up her arm - had she really been panicked enough not to notice?

The man was relegated to the back of her head upon this discovery. The only thing available for some sort of bandage was her white cloak, which Adellis was reluctant to deface. But there was nothing else. Half-forgetting him, she reached for it and, after several attempts, managed to rip enough off for a strip to wind around her arm.

In doing so she shifted position enough that a glance upwards revealed - the man. He seemed to still be looking at her. Adellis looked back, eyes still quite wide and not a little startled. "Who are you?" Her accent was more pronounced now, certainly, than it tended to be otherwise - a lilting inflection to the words, almost trilling the r's but not quite.

_________________

"Methadox," he replied shortly, removing a small pouch from around his neck. He carefully opened it, revealing a dried mixture of pungent herbs inside. "They forgot to take this. It should relieve some of pain and help the wound heal faster. Assuming they didn't lace it with poison while I was unconscious, of course."

((I've edited my bio slightly, just FYI))

Adellis looked from the offered pouch of herbs to his face, and back again. Poison. What was that? Oh, venom, like a snake. Naga. No, the Naga could be put out of her mind and stay out. Tentatively, she took it in slender, tapered fingers - an Elven quality, one of the many she did have - and deftly used them in winding the strip of white around her arm. The blood flow had receded to a sluggish ooze, and the wound hadn't been very deep initially, but the pain was enough to drive encroaching panic off somewhat.

Crossing her legs and settling into a rather more dignified position on the floor, Adellis handed the pouch back. "Thank you." The accent was less pronounced now, having made its brief appearance. It occurred to her, however, that humans did give their names when meeting each other. "I am called Adellis Distantstar, Me...Methadox." She had to grope a moment in order to pronounce it quite right.

_________________

(Hey, The~Doctor, you don`t mind if your char is in the same cell as mine?)

A silent hiss escaped from between Alteron`s teeth as he found himself laying on a cold cell floor, slowly he forced his upper body up before raising it above the level of a normal human. A quick glance around the cell and what he could tell about the cell block made him hiss in anger, he had been betrayed. Alteron whipped the end of his tail wildly around, hitting the wall occasionally as he slithered to the bars and inspected the cell block closer. These were occupied by numerous mages that he had seen in the banquette, but never really made any contact with them, idle pleasantries required from an ambassador.

Yet this, captivity meant that they had been betrayed and to avoid whatever fate made for them, they would have to escape from it or those who could escape it. For a fraction of a second his thoughts wandered off to his own land, hidden far away from prying eyes where his people were granted peace. Peace could be an arguable term of course, but in a world infested by other races that did not approve of their appearance or ways they had found a suitable home. Yet now this was all the plan of the one who set up the banquette, but had his lord possibly known that this would come to pass. Politics of his homeland were a tricky business and one had to cover his scales in every turn, perhaps he was granted this task in order to get rid of him. Yet for now all of that was unimportant and making his way back was his first goal, afterwards he could meddle with the politics and possible traitors not to mention secure his position of power that he had acquired due to his shamanic talents. Alteron`s gray, snake like eyes slitted as he stared at the cell across him where there were two mages discussing or he at least assumed them to be mages.

Apparently his nature was more than alarming to his other `cell mates`, his kin was rare and only known to some historians from time to time, these mages probably should consider it as some sort of an honor. Yet now that he realized it, his senses were returning to their original sharpness and a dull feeling left him. Alteron had been so concentrated on the events outside his cell that he had not realized to look back and when he did he found an elf dressed in a black tunic. Alteron approached cautiously with his fist ready should there be need of it, it was relieving and alarming of course that all of them were unarmed. Yet then again none of their true powers sprang from brute the strength he assumed, certainly after properly recuperating and collection more information on the situation he could brake out. The dark gods had favored him thus far so what best time to show they favor to their loyal worshiper, almost fanatic. Alteron extended his relatively slim right hand towards the apparent mage and grabbed a hold of his other hand, with a little effort he raised the mage torso up with his legs still touching the floor.

A quick slap across the face should awaken him....

Alteron thought with a wicked smirk.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

OOC: Not at all! (That's what I had planned anyway! ) *smacks head* I forgot to name my character! Okay...okay...name. What would be a good name? Well, Quinlan Vos'll have to do.

IC: Vos woke with a start, pain roaring throught his right arm. The person doing the waking was even more startling than the waking itself. It was a Naga, in the very snakelike flesh. He let the knife slip from its sheath on his right forearm, caught it with his left hand, and quickly placed it under the Naga's jaw where a quick, sharp thrust would send it up into the brain. "Now, if you please, put me back on the ground before you can no longer do anything."

That was when he realized that he couldn't feel his magic; the space where there was normally a warm, calming feeling there was only cold emptyness. Vos set that aside for now, it wasn't life threating, while the Naga was. That was the forefront in his mind at the moment, all other things were secondary to survival. He then noticed that his saber was also missing. Then how had the people who took it missed the knife? Did they just think that no mage would carry concealed weapons, or was he just so delerious that he was imagining the knife in his hand.

Ah, well, it didn't really matter, for soon he would probably be dead by the snakelike hands of the Naga.

_________________
Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

Alteron would have wished that he could have reacted to the mage`s movements more quickly, but apparently he had under estimated him and secondly he had not thought that they would had been checked for weapons. Careless work, either their captors had little brains or they never bothered to check as they did not consider a dagger as a threat. Whatever the case, Alteron would have to place the mage down unless he wanted a dagger trough his throat, apparently his rude wake up and the fact that a human with a snakes tail where his legs should have been was dangling him in the air. Alteron let out a low hiss as he lowered Vos to the floor and made a quick, considered move backwards to avoid the dagger, this elf was not in the best mood no dout. Yet then again, hardly anyone could be happy when they would at first look forward to a banquette and everything it contained, but would be rudely interrupted and locked up.

Alteron lazily whipped the end of his tail from side to side as his almost reptilian eyes narrowed and his forked tongue hissed between his teeth.

"So you are awake mage, I was wondering whether you were unconscious or possibly dead, but it seems that our lives hold some value still all tough the banquette ended rather awkwardly..... I hope my appearance does not frighten you, for what I know hear you outsiders rarely see my kin and are rather intimated by us. What might be your name then?"

Alteron inquired making a short move towards Vos, rather because he seemed to get more relaxed for now, but there was the intent to try whether the mage would prove dangerous.

_________________

Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

The first thing Carlina felt as she slowly and painfully woke up was the pain that lingered in her nostrils. It was still there even though it was probably hours since someone sneaked up on her and covered her nostrils with a grimy rag that had been placed in a noxious potion. She then noticed that a rag was tied messily over her mouth. Cowards she thought as she brutally untied the rag. She, however, couldn't remember how she got here. The last thing she remembered was approaching a building where a banquet was supposed to take place and being ambushed. She then tried to get up and approach the cell gate but as she rose, her leg refused to go any further.

They had chained her to the cell wall. She cursed. She shifted her long red hair aside as she tried to see if she was alone in the dungeon. She was alone in her cell but the one across from hers contained something that she would have thought she would never see. A Naga. But he had company too. An elf. Well this is fantastic, she scornfully thought. For some odd reason that she will never fully understand, she began to call out for the Naga. Unfortunately, her voice had been temporarily lost while she was drugged and only a rasping moan emitted from her mouth.

_________________

I was cured all right.

Maq got up, grimaced at the pain of his sprained ankle that he had forgotten was there, and stretched a little. His back ached. But that was no matter. What really mattered was the interesting going ons in the cell near his. Naga and elf, who don't seem to be getting along very well, the elf having a dagger out and the Naga punching the elf and all, Maq edged over to the other man in his cell, [Cirron], and nudged him. "This is going to be interesting."

He was now so occupied that he didn't have time to think about how or why he'd gotten here. well, Why was obvious, he had tried to kill the Guild master. Don't ask him why, he himself didn't know. Well, it wasn't often that there was an amusement in the cells, so Maq had better take advantage of it and watch, to be bemused. Better than lingering upon gloomy thoughts, that's ll give him nightmares. Again. of his home town, which managed to be different yet same every time. Maq forced his mind away from it, and watched the cell near his.

_________________

(Hey Cur and The-Doctor, is it allright if my charries in with you?)
Threng woke with a start. He flung his prone body into a standing position, only to feel a wake of nausia and dissiness hit him. He stumbled slightly, steadying himself on the wall besides him. As his vision slowly settled, he groaned at his prediciment. Memories of the previous night flickered to life.
He was walking down the dark ally, perfectly aware of the man who was secretly following him. Threng had to give it to him, this stalker was excellent. Search as he might, he could se no sign of him. However, he was an earth mage, and his conection to the ground below him sent vibrations of following footsteps. He chuckled as he turned a corner. The man was getting closer. Sending claps of magic over the path to fool the stalker into thing them Threngs footseps, Threng hid behind the corner of building, waiting to ambush the man. He could hear him now without his magical gift. 5...4...3...2...1-

That's when he heard a whirl of wings and his vision went dark.

He was here now, in what appeared to be a dungeon with a splitting head ache. He brought his hand to the back of his head, and brought it back sticky with blood. Hurridly he glanced around, noting the naga and the man in the cell with him, who seemed to be preoccupied with eachother. He dismissed them. Did his captors really think that they could keep him in this prison of stone and metal? A grin broke out on his face. He focused on the wall in front of him, then commanded it to split.

Nothing happened. Threng cursed strongly, then turned towards the metal bars, greeting the naga and human briskly as he pushed them aside. Grasping the metal, he yanked, commanding them to yield to his force.

Again, nothing happened.

He turned to the two others in his cell "Lovely prediciment we're in, eh?" He asked

Groaning, she laid her back against the cell wall. She couldn't move away from it even if she wanted to. She had noticed that no one else was chained to the wall or was gagged like she was. Was it because she was a vampire? Well she didn't exactly ask him to bite her so she saw little reason why she should be treated unfairly. Out of boredom and curiosity, she watched the cell that contained the Naga and elf.

_________________

I was cured all right.

Everyone was stirring, their quiet voices magnified threefold by the bare walls. It was doing nothing good for Cirron's headache. And now his cellmate, apparently thinking he'd found a friend, was nudging him. Logic dictated that the man was a mage, though judging from the twin sabres, he was just as likely not.

Cirron opened his mouth and choked out a cross between a grunt and a croak. Swallowing and moistening his parched lips, he tried again. "I don't... my magic..." Shame flooded through him, rapidly ensued by desperation. He cast around, appraising his fellow prisoners. Two others shared this cell. One was a silver-haired woman, unutterably beautiful, and another an older man - Methadox - conversing with a female in the adjacent cell. She looked familiar, someone he'd seen around the Guild... Adellis?

Come to think of it, most of them looked familiar - a palpable sign that the Guild's numbers were shrinking. The exception was the naga, currently on unfriendly terms with a man garbed in black. He gleaned from this encounter that the others didn't have their magic either, or the naga would have sooner blasted his conversationist into the wall - though to what end, Cirron had no idea.

A screech of metal and a bang. The reinforced door at the end of the corridor had opened, admitting two figures cloaked in black and scarlet reminiscent of flame. They entered at a stride, each bearing for illumination a ball of fire in their palms. They were mages - fire elementalists! Cirron's first thought was that the Guild had betrayed them. His second thought was incredulity - why would the Guild round up its own mages?

All questions fled when they began speaking.

"Nice haul this moon-turn," the first commented, halting in the corridor and peering through the bars. Firelight glinted on something crimson swinging from his neck. A ruby amulet. His eyes, glittering under the shadows of his hood, slid over each prisoner with the mien of scrutinizing interesting potion ingredients. He turned to his companion. "When is the blood rite?"

"Tonight, if the moon permits." His companion sauntered past the cells without stopping. She laughed. "Elves... naga... vampress, are you? No, don't look at me like that! Such lovely red hair. Natural or magically enchanted?" She laughed again, a harsh bark devoid of mirth. "I count ten of these filth. Indeed, the Wyrmlord will be most pleased."

_________________