Redemption

Fiantha Kal, Fallen paladin of Chauntea

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He noted that hesitation, that tenseness. Alamondar stood across from her, perfectly at ease, body language disarming. He laughed, and it was an evil sound, one that seemed to hang in the air after he was finished.

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

While he was speaking, he remained curiously still, not quite completely relaxed…and a charge was growing in the air, nearly imperceptible as his silenced and stilled lightning bolt was being readied…

[fallenfiantha]

Almost. Almost she held firm, marking the distance to him and where he’d thrown his dagger. She could hurl the scythe at him, and that would give her enough time to get to a weapon she was permitted to use…

But then he said it, that dear nickname Seidon had given her, and white-hot rage flared within her, burning away all her thoughts, all her hesitations. With an almost bestial cry, she threw herself at him, scythe swinging with a skill that might have been lethal if there had been any strength behind it.

[alamondar]

Huh. Well, that got her attention…Alamondar didn’t have any time to reflict on that further, as the woman was coming in hard and fast….that is, she would be if she weren’t in such a sorry shape…

He brought up his arm, hand out stretched with a cruel smile on his face. From that hand, just before Fiantha’s scythe touched him, a lightning bolt slammed into the Aasimar, sending her flying back and tumbling from the impact. Feather head. I said feather head, and she tried to go beserk. Still, he remained, smiling, watching the injured Fiantha with malevolent ruby eyes. “Come now…is that all, feather head?”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out as the lightning lanced into her, shoving her back from the drow, sending her face-first to the ground - but as soon as she landed, she was struggling upright again, blood flowing from her lip where she’d bitten it. She gripped the scythe, using it as a lever to get back to her feet.

Then she threw herself at him again, her face set in a furious snarl. He had to be silenced, had to pay, had to die-

[alamondar]

Alamondar stepped back as she attacked again, dodging just in time, playing with her, teasing her as he made it seem that she was just missing her. After observing that first, wild swing, he realized that the Aasimar simply couldn’t follow through on her attacks very well. 

So he dodged the first and second swing, letting her play out her rage a bit. Then, after dodging a third, massive swing that threatened to leave her overextended and out of balance, he darted in a crouch, leading with an elbow smash to her gut to force her air out. Rather than straightening out, he spun, sweeping her feet from under her and sending her crashing to the ground again. 

As she fell and he straightened out, he hopped back, chanting another lightning bolt spell as quickly as he dared, knowing she would attempt to get up again.  He raised his arm again and grinned as he spat out the last word and another barrage of lightning leapt from his hand-

[fallenfiantha]

The scythe was so heavy - her limbs were weak and aching - but still Fiantha kept up her attack. She had a scythe, the drow was just there and if she could only land one solid hit, it would be over and she could crawl home if necessary, free, she'd never see him again, never hear that hateful voice sneering her husband's name for her -

He knocked the air from her lungs, her feet out from underneath her, and Fiantha gasped like a stranded fish, ignoring the pain, as she tried to get enough breath to stand again. The drow was chanting, and she knew what that meant, she just had to be quicker...

Fiantha threw herself to one side as the lightning arced out, hoping wildly she'd guessed correctly -

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out weakly as he lifted her, sending a renewed spike of pain through her shoulder, but there was not enough strength in her to fight him. She could not even lift her head from his shoulder… not that she truly wished to. She knew she ought to, but it was softer than the stone, and there was a perverse sense of comfort about it. She was not alone. He’d come back for her. And he was taking her out of that tiny space - any pain was preferable to that isolation and confinement, surely, whatever he planned now, it had to be better than that…

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

But if she were to kill him, if she could escape, she would need to be stronger. She would need to eat, to drink, to heal. Surely there was no harm in accepting what she needed from him, in feigning gratitude, and a greater degree of weakness and dependency than she possessed… “Thank you,” she murmured again.

[alamondar]

There was slight difference in that expression of hers, Alamondar noted. A sense of resolve, perhaps? The drow knew he could not let his gaurd down. Surely she would plot. And plot. And he’d lay her low again. And again. And again. She would learn. So he played along, even smiling a bit at her response. “You are quite welcome, Fiantha. I did, after all, say that I’d reward you for your survival.”

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

He dipped her into the water, and along it’s edge he had already prepared soap and began to bathe her of the filth. He was gentle in his actions, even so far as massaging area’s that he knew were going to be particularly sore from lying on rock as a bed. “I’ll get that wound properly dressed, too.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha was Chauntean and comfortable with her muscular, wide-hipped body, not some prissy Tyrran who blushed at the very idea of exposed skin. Nevertheless, her skin crawled with vulnerability and the need to hide as Alamondar undressed her. She set her teeth and endured it, as she endured the pain when he peeled her shirt carefully from her infected shoulder.

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

She felt as though she could drink forever at this slow pace and know no satiation, but there came a time when she was less consumed by her thirst, and thus more aware. Alamondar’s hands were disturbingly gentle as he washed her, like his voice when he promised to dress her wound. Lies, all of it. She knew better. She did. Even though his touch eased the ache in her limbs and back, even though she was drinking, even though she was clean again…

[alamondar]

She felt tense. Good. That meant he could break her even more. So he finished washing her and considered his next step, the next insult…the next crack in that woman. He waded through the stream to the side, grabbing a set of bandages. He returned to the aasimar’s side and began cleaning out the stab wound, face set in concentration as he gauged the infection that set in, then finished bandaging it.

He considered what he knew of Chauntea’s faith. Not much, but he did note that the deity’s favored weapon was the scythe, and as a fallen paladin, she would quite likely be forbidden to use one. I need you broken. So I need you to break your own principles…my dear Fiantha. He helped her redress, then lead her to a clearing, suddenly dropping her, then walked a couple of paces and turned back to her. WIth a gesture he gestured to the weapon. Even if she were allowed, she was in no shape to take him, and he could have even more fun with the Chauntean. “Right there is a scythe. You consider yourself a good woman? A woman of faith. Strike me down with that scythe then. he even took his dagger and tossed it aside, showing that he had no armor…and no weapons. “Do it.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha set her teeth and endured the cleaning of her wound; it was a relief to have it bound, to be once again dressed. If she was not, physically, much stronger, she felt more like herself, out here in the open, no longer thirsty, clean…

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn’t escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He’d easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe…

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he’d thrown away his own weapon…

Or else… not so foolish. He still had magic. And she… she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

Tensed, wary, she watched him, the scythe held tightly in her hands.

[alamondar]

He noted that hesitation, that tenseness. Alamondar stood across from her, perfectly at ease, body language disarming. He laughed, and it was an evil sound, one that seemed to hang in the air after he was finished.

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

While he was speaking, he remained curiously still, not quite completely relaxed…and a charge was growing in the air, nearly imperceptible as his silenced and stilled lightning bolt was being readied…

[fallenfiantha]

Almost. Almost she held firm, marking the distance to him and where he’d thrown his dagger. She could hurl the scythe at him, and that would give her enough time to get to a weapon she was permitted to use…

But then he said it, that dear nickname Seidon had given her, and white-hot rage flared within her, burning away all her thoughts, all her hesitations. With an almost bestial cry, she threw herself at him, scythe swinging with a skill that might have been lethal if there had been any strength behind it.

[alamondar]

Huh. Well, that got her attention…Alamondar didn’t have any time to reflict on that further, as the woman was coming in hard and fast….that is, she would be if she weren’t in such a sorry shape…

He brought up his arm, hand out stretched with a cruel smile on his face. From that hand, just before Fiantha’s scythe touched him, a lightning bolt slammed into the Aasimar, sending her flying back and tumbling from the impact. Feather head. I said feather head, and she tried to go beserk. Still, he remained, smiling, watching the injured Fiantha with malevolent ruby eyes. “Come now…is that all, feather head?”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out as the lightning lanced into her, shoving her back from the drow, sending her face-first to the ground - but as soon as she landed, she was struggling upright again, blood flowing from her lip where she'd bitten it. She gripped the scythe, using it as a lever to get back to her feet.

Then she threw herself at him again, her face set in a furious snarl. He had to be silenced, had to pay, had to die-

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out weakly as he lifted her, sending a renewed spike of pain through her shoulder, but there was not enough strength in her to fight him. She could not even lift her head from his shoulder… not that she truly wished to. She knew she ought to, but it was softer than the stone, and there was a perverse sense of comfort about it. She was not alone. He’d come back for her. And he was taking her out of that tiny space - any pain was preferable to that isolation and confinement, surely, whatever he planned now, it had to be better than that…

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

But if she were to kill him, if she could escape, she would need to be stronger. She would need to eat, to drink, to heal. Surely there was no harm in accepting what she needed from him, in feigning gratitude, and a greater degree of weakness and dependency than she possessed… “Thank you,” she murmured again.

[alamondar]

There was slight difference in that expression of hers, Alamondar noted. A sense of resolve, perhaps? The drow knew he could not let his gaurd down. Surely she would plot. And plot. And he’d lay her low again. And again. And again. She would learn. So he played along, even smiling a bit at her response. “You are quite welcome, Fiantha. I did, after all, say that I’d reward you for your survival.”

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

He dipped her into the water, and along it’s edge he had already prepared soap and began to bathe her of the filth. He was gentle in his actions, even so far as massaging area’s that he knew were going to be particularly sore from lying on rock as a bed. “I’ll get that wound properly dressed, too.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha was Chauntean and comfortable with her muscular, wide-hipped body, not some prissy Tyrran who blushed at the very idea of exposed skin. Nevertheless, her skin crawled with vulnerability and the need to hide as Alamondar undressed her. She set her teeth and endured it, as she endured the pain when he peeled her shirt carefully from her infected shoulder.

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

She felt as though she could drink forever at this slow pace and know no satiation, but there came a time when she was less consumed by her thirst, and thus more aware. Alamondar’s hands were disturbingly gentle as he washed her, like his voice when he promised to dress her wound. Lies, all of it. She knew better. She did. Even though his touch eased the ache in her limbs and back, even though she was drinking, even though she was clean again…

[alamondar]

She felt tense. Good. That meant he could break her even more. So he finished washing her and considered his next step, the next insult…the next crack in that woman. He waded through the stream to the side, grabbing a set of bandages. He returned to the aasimar’s side and began cleaning out the stab wound, face set in concentration as he gauged the infection that set in, then finished bandaging it.

He considered what he knew of Chauntea’s faith. Not much, but he did note that the deity’s favored weapon was the scythe, and as a fallen paladin, she would quite likely be forbidden to use one. I need you broken. So I need you to break your own principles…my dear Fiantha. He helped her redress, then lead her to a clearing, suddenly dropping her, then walked a couple of paces and turned back to her. WIth a gesture he gestured to the weapon. Even if she were allowed, she was in no shape to take him, and he could have even more fun with the Chauntean. “Right there is a scythe. You consider yourself a good woman? A woman of faith. Strike me down with that scythe then. he even took his dagger and tossed it aside, showing that he had no armor…and no weapons. “Do it.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha set her teeth and endured the cleaning of her wound; it was a relief to have it bound, to be once again dressed. If she was not, physically, much stronger, she felt more like herself, out here in the open, no longer thirsty, clean…

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn’t escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He’d easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe…

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he’d thrown away his own weapon…

Or else… not so foolish. He still had magic. And she… she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

Tensed, wary, she watched him, the scythe held tightly in her hands.

[alamondar]

He noted that hesitation, that tenseness. Alamondar stood across from her, perfectly at ease, body language disarming. He laughed, and it was an evil sound, one that seemed to hang in the air after he was finished.

Still smiling, he continued. “But of course you can’t. You’re an aasimar. You’re a feather head that follows a weak, pathetic God that holds you back, keeping you from becoming what you could be.”

While he was speaking, he remained curiously still, not quite completely relaxed…and a charge was growing in the air, nearly imperceptible as his silenced and stilled lightning bolt was being readied…

[fallenfiantha]

Almost. Almost she held firm, marking the distance to him and where he'd thrown his dagger. She could hurl the scythe at him, and that would give her enough time to get to a weapon she was permitted to use...

But then he said it, that dear nickname Seidon had given her, and white-hot rage flared within her, burning away all her thoughts, all her hesitations. With an almost bestial cry, she threw herself at him, scythe swinging with a skill that might have been lethal if there had been any strength behind it.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out weakly as he lifted her, sending a renewed spike of pain through her shoulder, but there was not enough strength in her to fight him. She could not even lift her head from his shoulder… not that she truly wished to. She knew she ought to, but it was softer than the stone, and there was a perverse sense of comfort about it. She was not alone. He’d come back for her. And he was taking her out of that tiny space - any pain was preferable to that isolation and confinement, surely, whatever he planned now, it had to be better than that…

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

But if she were to kill him, if she could escape, she would need to be stronger. She would need to eat, to drink, to heal. Surely there was no harm in accepting what she needed from him, in feigning gratitude, and a greater degree of weakness and dependency than she possessed… “Thank you,” she murmured again.

[alamondar]

There was slight difference in that expression of hers, Alamondar noted. A sense of resolve, perhaps? The drow knew he could not let his gaurd down. Surely she would plot. And plot. And he’d lay her low again. And again. And again. She would learn. So he played along, even smiling a bit at her response. “You are quite welcome, Fiantha. I did, after all, say that I’d reward you for your survival.”

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

He dipped her into the water, and along it’s edge he had already prepared soap and began to bathe her of the filth. He was gentle in his actions, even so far as massaging area’s that he knew were going to be particularly sore from lying on rock as a bed. “I’ll get that wound properly dressed, too.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha was Chauntean and comfortable with her muscular, wide-hipped body, not some prissy Tyrran who blushed at the very idea of exposed skin. Nevertheless, her skin crawled with vulnerability and the need to hide as Alamondar undressed her. She set her teeth and endured it, as she endured the pain when he peeled her shirt carefully from her infected shoulder.

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she’d only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

She felt as though she could drink forever at this slow pace and know no satiation, but there came a time when she was less consumed by her thirst, and thus more aware. Alamondar’s hands were disturbingly gentle as he washed her, like his voice when he promised to dress her wound. Lies, all of it. She knew better. She did. Even though his touch eased the ache in her limbs and back, even though she was drinking, even though she was clean again…

[alamondar]

She felt tense. Good. That meant he could break her even more. So he finished washing her and considered his next step, the next insult…the next crack in that woman. He waded through the stream to the side, grabbing a set of bandages. He returned to the aasimar’s side and began cleaning out the stab wound, face set in concentration as he gauged the infection that set in, then finished bandaging it.

He considered what he knew of Chauntea’s faith. Not much, but he did note that the deity’s favored weapon was the scythe, and as a fallen paladin, she would quite likely be forbidden to use one. I need you broken. So I need you to break your own principles…my dear Fiantha. He helped her redress, then lead her to a clearing, suddenly dropping her, then walked a couple of paces and turned back to her. WIth a gesture he gestured to the weapon. Even if she were allowed, she was in no shape to take him, and he could have even more fun with the Chauntean. “Right there is a scythe. You consider yourself a good woman? A woman of faith. Strike me down with that scythe then. he even took his dagger and tossed it aside, showing that he had no armor…and no weapons. “Do it.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha set her teeth and endured the cleaning of her wound; it was a relief to have it bound, to be once again dressed. If she was not, physically, much stronger, she felt more like herself, out here in the open, no longer thirsty, clean...

But it was not yet time to run. She wouldn't escape him that way - she could feel how weak and slow she was, and he needed to be dealt with, or else it would solve nothing. So she submitted meekly enough, even to being dropped - and then Fiantha saw it, shining in the intermittent sunlight under the trees.

A scythe.

Oh, if she could only get her hands on it - she was weakened, she knew, but even in her current state, she could hurt him. He'd easily bested her with a greatsword, but this was a scythe...

Fiantha barely heard the drow, goading her to do exactly what she wanted - needed - to do. If she nearly fell, scrambling for the weapon, still she got it, straightened herself with the scythe held low and ready. It felt like power, like certainty and strength and righteousness, as she held it and watched Alamondar - foolish drow, he'd thrown away his own weapon...

Or else... not so foolish. He still had magic. And she... she was weak, and no longer a paladin, and forbidden the use of a scythe.

It was one of the few pieces of guidance she had been given. She would not damage further her slim hopes for redemption.

But imprisoned here, at the mercy of a sadistic drow, how could she ever redeem herself?

Tensed, wary, she watched him, the scythe held tightly in her hands.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed then, true amusement mixing with the usual undercurrent of malice. “There is no word for love in the drow language. The closest to the meaning we have is lust. Perhaps we all do, in the early stage of our lives…before the indoctrination sets in. My sisters in their young age looked out for me…especially after the sacrifice of the third child. I did not understand yet.” He continued his caress, knowing his touch unnerved her. His voice was soft, yet strong. The musical speech was there, and it gave his words a truly demented effect.

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

He drew his Bastard sword and pressed it against her throat…hard enough to draw a nice horizontal line across her throat…one that would scar her. “If I were like the others…” As he trailed off he cut her arms loose…”You would be dead.” He rose kicking her hard in the sternum to draw all of her breath out. “Enjoy your stay…Fiantha.” With that he left the cell and locked it, leaving behind the bare minimum amount of food and water for the week for her to live.

[fallenfiantha]

At first, his absence was a relief; never mind the pain as she slowly regained her breath, the thin cut across her throat, her wounds… her hands were free, and he was no longer there to touch her and twist her words. She stretched her arms, worked her fingers until they were sure enough to undo her feet, and stood.

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she’d kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air… a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

——————————-

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings… they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness… what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that…

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun… houses and four walls about her had always been… difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark…

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them… but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

It was so dark… she had had a light once, but she couldn’t remember where it was or how to call it. It was so dark, and so small, foul-smelling, the air dank and still… There was no escape, no way out, she was not strong enough for that. She needed… she needed… “Alamondar,” she whispered, the word no more than a breath through dry, cracked lips. “Please. Don’t leave me here. Kill me if you must, but don’t leave me alone down here…”

[alamondar]

Over the past tenday, Alamondar had been absent from that cave network. The aasimar he had imprisoned, he reasoned, would slowly crack through sheer isolation coupled with unsanitary conditions and limited food and water. Everyone broke under torture - particularly that of a psychological nature. Everyone.

He stepped back to the cavern that held his prisoner, and his keen ears picked up that final whisper. She looked to be in bad shape indeed - good. It was pleasing to the drow to see her like that…drifting on the edge of insanity…and calling his name. He opened the old cell, ignoring the smell of feces and stale urine as he approached. Gathering the aasimar in his arms, he used his vision gifted to his race by centuries living underground to find his way without any light. “You are not dreaming…Fiantha. You have persevered, showing your resolve. I will reward you now.”

The air grew more fresh as they approached the outside. She was weak, certainly too weak to care for herself, let alone pose a threat to the drow. He stopped at the cave entrance, letting her see the rays of dawn. “How does food, water, and a bath sound, Fiantha?” His voice was made to seem pleasant, as was his expression. The aasimar might not be so glad to see him, if she knew what his plans for the woman were…

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out weakly as he lifted her, sending a renewed spike of pain through her shoulder, but there was not enough strength in her to fight him. She could not even lift her head from his shoulder… not that she truly wished to. She knew she ought to, but it was softer than the stone, and there was a perverse sense of comfort about it. She was not alone. He’d come back for her. And he was taking her out of that tiny space - any pain was preferable to that isolation and confinement, surely, whatever he planned now, it had to be better than that…

And it was, gods, it was… the sun’s first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"…thank you…" she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he’d known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

But if she were to kill him, if she could escape, she would need to be stronger. She would need to eat, to drink, to heal. Surely there was no harm in accepting what she needed from him, in feigning gratitude, and a greater degree of weakness and dependency than she possessed… “Thank you,” she murmured again.

[alamondar]

There was slight difference in that expression of hers, Alamondar noted. A sense of resolve, perhaps? The drow knew he could not let his gaurd down. Surely she would plot. And plot. And he’d lay her low again. And again. And again. She would learn. So he played along, even smiling a bit at her response. “You are quite welcome, Fiantha. I did, after all, say that I’d reward you for your survival.”

He carried her easily to the stream. “This is Charwood. Not so long ago, it was haunted as a whole. Even now, foul things stir in some of it’s depths. I recognized signs of demon cult, but magical residues indicate that they were eliminated by a pair of mages: they wielded powerful magics indeed.” 

He dipped her into the water, and along it’s edge he had already prepared soap and began to bathe her of the filth. He was gentle in his actions, even so far as massaging area’s that he knew were going to be particularly sore from lying on rock as a bed. “I’ll get that wound properly dressed, too.”

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha was Chauntean and comfortable with her muscular, wide-hipped body, not some prissy Tyrran who blushed at the very idea of exposed skin. Nevertheless, her skin crawled with vulnerability and the need to hide as Alamondar undressed her. She set her teeth and endured it, as she endured the pain when he peeled her shirt carefully from her infected shoulder.

The water, when he lowered her into it, was shockingly cold. It stole her breath for an instant, but then she realised - water - and dipped her head to drink. She fought her need to gulp it down with the knowledge that she'd only hurt herself if she drank too quickly, forced herself to sip continually and to be aware of its sweetness (gift of Eldath, her mind whispered).

She felt as though she could drink forever at this slow pace and know no satiation, but there came a time when she was less consumed by her thirst, and thus more aware. Alamondar's hands were disturbingly gentle as he washed her, like his voice when he promised to dress her wound. Lies, all of it. She knew better. She did. Even though his touch eased the ache in her limbs and back, even though she was drinking, even though she was clean again...

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed then, true amusement mixing with the usual undercurrent of malice. “There is no word for love in the drow language. The closest to the meaning we have is lust. Perhaps we all do, in the early stage of our lives…before the indoctrination sets in. My sisters in their young age looked out for me…especially after the sacrifice of the third child. I did not understand yet.” He continued his caress, knowing his touch unnerved her. His voice was soft, yet strong. The musical speech was there, and it gave his words a truly demented effect.

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

He drew his Bastard sword and pressed it against her throat…hard enough to draw a nice horizontal line across her throat…one that would scar her. “If I were like the others…” As he trailed off he cut her arms loose…”You would be dead.” He rose kicking her hard in the sternum to draw all of her breath out. “Enjoy your stay…Fiantha.” With that he left the cell and locked it, leaving behind the bare minimum amount of food and water for the week for her to live.

[fallenfiantha]

At first, his absence was a relief; never mind the pain as she slowly regained her breath, the thin cut across her throat, her wounds… her hands were free, and he was no longer there to touch her and twist her words. She stretched her arms, worked her fingers until they were sure enough to undo her feet, and stood.

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she’d kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air… a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

——————————-

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings… they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness… what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that…

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun… houses and four walls about her had always been… difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark…

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them… but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

It was so dark… she had had a light once, but she couldn’t remember where it was or how to call it. It was so dark, and so small, foul-smelling, the air dank and still… There was no escape, no way out, she was not strong enough for that. She needed… she needed… “Alamondar,” she whispered, the word no more than a breath through dry, cracked lips. “Please. Don’t leave me here. Kill me if you must, but don’t leave me alone down here…”

[alamondar]

Over the past tenday, Alamondar had been absent from that cave network. The aasimar he had imprisoned, he reasoned, would slowly crack through sheer isolation coupled with unsanitary conditions and limited food and water. Everyone broke under torture - particularly that of a psychological nature. Everyone.

He stepped back to the cavern that held his prisoner, and his keen ears picked up that final whisper. She looked to be in bad shape indeed - good. It was pleasing to the drow to see her like that…drifting on the edge of insanity…and calling his name. He opened the old cell, ignoring the smell of feces and stale urine as he approached. Gathering the aasimar in his arms, he used his vision gifted to his race by centuries living underground to find his way without any light. “You are not dreaming…Fiantha. You have persevered, showing your resolve. I will reward you now.”

The air grew more fresh as they approached the outside. She was weak, certainly too weak to care for herself, let alone pose a threat to the drow. He stopped at the cave entrance, letting her see the rays of dawn. “How does food, water, and a bath sound, Fiantha?” His voice was made to seem pleasant, as was his expression. The aasimar might not be so glad to see him, if she knew what his plans for the woman were…

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha cried out weakly as he lifted her, sending a renewed spike of pain through her shoulder, but there was not enough strength in her to fight him. She could not even lift her head from his shoulder... not that she truly wished to. She knew she ought to, but it was softer than the stone, and there was a perverse sense of comfort about it. She was not alone. He'd come back for her. And he was taking her out of that tiny space - any pain was preferable to that isolation and confinement, surely, whatever he planned now, it had to be better than that...

And it was, gods, it was... the sun's first rays were painful to her eyes after so many days in darkness, but Fiantha stared at them anyway. The breeze was soft against her cheek, fresh and cool, and smelt of growing things. She simply let it all soak into her, almost as precious, as necessary, as food and drink.

"...thank you..." she murmured, half to the world in general and the gods who had shaped it so, and half to Alamondar, for this small kindness. Whatever came after, he had given her this, as if he'd known how badly she needed it. Then she made sense of his words, the way he spoke to her -

- no. There was no kindness here, only calculation. She knew that. She would not be in such a state if he had not kidnapped and imprisoned and stabbed her - these small concessions, too, were just as intended to break her and make her pliant as leaving her in that cell had been, She knew that.

But if she were to kill him, if she could escape, she would need to be stronger. She would need to eat, to drink, to heal. Surely there was no harm in accepting what she needed from him, in feigning gratitude, and a greater degree of weakness and dependency than she possessed... "Thank you," she murmured again.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had… questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them… but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to…

… they had flayed her baby…

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. “What do you intend with me?” Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[alamondar]

He smiled. “That…depends on you. I’m curious about you. It seems that you surfacers are more complex than we had thought. You are not all simply weaklings. Do you have the will and indeed, the need, to continue on? Are you prepared to find out what you are truly meant to be?” 

He was silent for a few moments, studying her. “I get ahead of myself. Without warning, his dagger appeared as if it had always been in his hand and he stabbed her in the shoulder, savoring her scream. “Pain. It is an instrument to your body. It is something telling it that something is not right. In a fight, it often means that your technique was not good enough: that you need to adapt…to change. Could emotions not work the same way? Could it not drive you to realize that perhaps the way you’ve been taught is not the truth at all?”

[fallenfiantha]

She simply glared back at him, as fear and rage, guilt and grief all warred within her for dominance. His sadistic smile fed her fear; his words her rage and her determination - almost she answered him. And then she screamed, as his dagger ripped into a shoulder that had been uninjured before.

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

He seemed to be waiting for some response to his words. “If you want me… to listen…” she forced out between gritted teeth, “try talking… without the… stabbing. All I… caught… was something about… technique and emotions… and pain, but that might have been… me, not you…”

[alamondar]

That same sadistic smile remained on his face. “I could try that, but you weren’t cooperative before. My little friend here -” he glanced at his dagger, the aasimar’s blood dripping off of it -” changed that. You learned that you were weak.” The smile grew slightly wider. “You know, I don’t want to use such…crude methods…but I do enjoy it. I would suggest not giving me cause.”

"I am not, however, without some small measure of mercy." At this he glanced at the dried meats. "You will live, no, you will exist. For that is what you have done no? You have existed, not lived. You wander searching for a redemption that is beyond you: that is not living. That is existence without cause, without purpose. I propose a way out…Fiantha."

[fallenfiantha]

"I am… as cooperative… as I can be," Fiantha pointed out. "I still don’t… understand… what you want of me… besides a target… and you have already… threated my father." As if reason would avail her now… but it seemed to be all she had. She could not even call light to his eyes again, not without her hands free.

"Not… without purpose," she answered. "Not without cause. I have… a search. I have… work offered to me. I have… chances. I do not think… you can offer me anything I… would take from you… willingly."

[alamondar]

"You do not know what I want because I have not deemed you ready to know just yet." He tipped his head to the side. "I have no interest in your father. He is an old man that poses no threat to me or my plans. No, he can continue to live out his days…however many might be left."

"What use is a purpose you cannot fufill? What use is searching for things that cannot be found? You are Fallen. You are no longer the woman you were. You are wasting your life away. So I’ll concede that you have purpose. What I offer, then is a new life. A new beginning. A release, perhaps, from your pain. Consider your loss. The expression on your face as I mentioned your family indicates that they are no longer alive. They are dead and gone. Don’t you wish that were not so? They made you happy, I’m sure."

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha could not - would not - trust that the drow truly meant to leave her father alone… but she could hope. Even under these circumstances, bound hand and foot, a bolt wound in one shoulder and a stab wound in the other… despite all of it, she still needed her father to be safe. If she lost him, she truly had no one left.

She listened to her captor’s words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath’s care, and one day, perhaps, she’d see them again…

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he’d twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless…

"I am… Fallen," she conceded eventually, "and I have lost too much to be the person I once was… but as long as there is breath in me, I can try to be again the paladin I was intended to be. A release from pain would serve no purpose." As long as she remembered how she  had lost Seidon and Annen, it was impossible as well as pointless. Besides, the memory was as much goad as torture, and with some thin comfort in it; she would never willingly relinquish a single memory of them.

[alamondar]

He smiled wickedly. “You slew an entire village. Again, your current goal is hopeless. I know, because sometimes the drow will creep up from the Underdark, under the heavy curtain of night, and…” he traces a line across her neck to make his point. “Every last surface elf…dead. They exiled us in the beginning, you see. They forced us all underground. A once proud tribe damned…damned thanks to one lone goddess. We were punished for wanting little more than to advance ourselves. So we take our revenge…” 

"Find a new path. A new god, a new purpose. I will help you. Embrace what you know you are deep down inside." He caressed her.  He put on a mask of sympathy. But was it truly all fake? Not entirely, he realized. He slid in his verbal knife. "Don’t you wish to have that once more? To have a family, fill that hole deep inside? I lost my own House, that is, my entire family. I am alone now, so I understand…"

[fallenfiantha]

With one sentence he mimicked slitting her throat, speaking of how his kind murdered others for sport; with another he touched her almost tenderly, looking as though he understood her. She would not give him the satisfaction of shrinking away from his hand; even if she was bound and could not break free, she had her pride. It helped her keep her fear under control.

"Did you love none of those you lost?" she asked him, her tone somewhere between incredulity and scorn. "Seidon, Annen - they cannot be simply replaced, like broken toys! To even suggest it -” words failed her. How could he believe for a second -? Then she paled, as something else, hidden beneath his words, suggested itself to her.

He pretended sympathy, almost demanded it in turn, although he was her prisoner, the one who had wounded her. He would present himself as a guide to a new path (one of evil, she was certain) and someone on whom she could rely. Almost his words implied that he would be more, that he would replace her family himself.

No.

Never.

[alamondar]

He laughed then, true amusement mixing with the usual undercurrent of malice. “There is no word for love in the drow language. The closest to the meaning we have is lust. Perhaps we all do, in the early stage of our lives…before the indoctrination sets in. My sisters in their young age looked out for me…especially after the sacrifice of the third child. I did not understand yet.” He continued his caress, knowing his touch unnerved her. His voice was soft, yet strong. The musical speech was there, and it gave his words a truly demented effect.

"Then they teach the females that they are the rulers of drow society. They are to show no mercy. Mercy is weakness. And so they torture the males, enslave the lesser races. There was a human visitor once. They dangled him over a cliff for amusement. Then the brothers learn. And always we are attempting to kill one another. House warfare commences. The goal is complete annihilation with no evidence left behind. My House, the Tenth House, was attacked by the Eleventh. They killed everyone…except for me. I was too good. Too clever."

He drew his Bastard sword and pressed it against her throat…hard enough to draw a nice horizontal line across her throat…one that would scar her. “If I were like the others…” As he trailed off he cut her arms loose…”You would be dead.” He rose kicking her hard in the sternum to draw all of her breath out. “Enjoy your stay…Fiantha.” With that he left the cell and locked it, leaving behind the bare minimum amount of food and water for the week for her to live.

[fallenfiantha]

  At first, his absence was a relief; never mind the pain as she slowly regained her breath, the thin cut across her throat, her wounds... her hands were free, and he was no longer there to touch her and twist her words. She stretched her arms, worked her fingers until they were sure enough to undo her feet, and stood.

The cell was small and dark. Fiantha kept one hand on the wall for support as she tested the door - methodically at first, then with a measure of the panic she'd kept suppressed rising until she was all but banging at the door.

It took a wrenching effort of will to get herself under control again, to think.

She called light, that steady glow that was a gift of her celestial blood, and studied her surroundings more thoroughly. Stone, dead air... a bucket as the sole concession to bodily needs. A small amount of food and water - too much for one night, enough to stretch out for perhaps ten days, although she would be in a much-weakened state by the end of it. She would assume that was his intent.

She intended to survive. She intended to escape. She intended to kill him.

---------------------

The days - if they were truly any such thing, down where her all-too-brief spell was the only light she knew - passed slowly. She ate little, only when the pain in her stomach became unendurable, and drank less. She had sacrificed a good portion of her water to clean out her wounds; the risk of sepsis was all too real. The stab wound was going bad despite her efforts, the flesh puffing up red and sensitive around it.

The lack of light for most of the hours, the deprivation of sustenance, the uncomfortable surroundings... they were difficult to endure, but only added weight to the real torment – the questions. The fears. There was nothing to distract herself from them, in the endless darkness... what did he truly intend with her? Was he ever going to come back? Was her father safe? What had he meant by this or that...

And constantly the walls pressed tighter about her, the small stone box grew smaller and more confining even though she counted its dimensions in her pacing steps, around and around and around. She was not made for this. She had the blood of Chauntea’s servitors in her veins; she needed open air, trees and grass and growing things, wind and sun... houses and four walls about her had always been... difficult, but this was worse, so much worse.

It pressed and pressed, squeezing her smaller, forcing the questions and doubts and fears into her mind with greater and greater urgency. She prayed – no, she begged – with a fervour rare since she’d returned home to the slaughter of the grove. Let her out. Let her father be safe. Let the drow return to set her free, don’t let him leave her down here to die alone in the dark...

By the end of the tenday, she no longer had strength to move from the stretch of stones she had arbitrarily designated as a bed. The food, however slowly she nibbled at it, had given out days before; she had twice licked out her water dish, chasing just one more drop. Her shoulder was aflame, filling her with fever and occasional bout of delirium.

She heard Annen, sometimes, screaming for her – “I’m coming, oh, little one, I am coming, hold on for me!” she pleaded her baby, trying to run to her, always too late. She saw Seidon, smiling as he bid her hurry back to him, as she promised she would, that she would be no time at all. Sometimes they were so close she could almost touch them... but then they faded in her lucid periods, and she knew she yet lived.

It was so dark... she had had a light once, but she couldn’t remember where it was or how to call it. It was so dark, and so small, foul-smelling, the air dank and still... There was no escape, no way out, she was not strong enough for that. She needed... she needed... “Alamondar,” she whispered, the word no more than a breath through dry, cracked lips. “Please. Don’t leave me here. Kill me if you must, but don’t leave me alone down here...”

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had… questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them… but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to…

… they had flayed her baby…

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. “What do you intend with me?” Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[alamondar]

He smiled. “That…depends on you. I’m curious about you. It seems that you surfacers are more complex than we had thought. You are not all simply weaklings. Do you have the will and indeed, the need, to continue on? Are you prepared to find out what you are truly meant to be?” 

He was silent for a few moments, studying her. “I get ahead of myself. Without warning, his dagger appeared as if it had always been in his hand and he stabbed her in the shoulder, savoring her scream. “Pain. It is an instrument to your body. It is something telling it that something is not right. In a fight, it often means that your technique was not good enough: that you need to adapt…to change. Could emotions not work the same way? Could it not drive you to realize that perhaps the way you’ve been taught is not the truth at all?”

[fallenfiantha]

She simply glared back at him, as fear and rage, guilt and grief all warred within her for dominance. His sadistic smile fed her fear; his words her rage and her determination - almost she answered him. And then she screamed, as his dagger ripped into a shoulder that had been uninjured before.

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

He seemed to be waiting for some response to his words. “If you want me… to listen…” she forced out between gritted teeth, “try talking… without the… stabbing. All I… caught… was something about… technique and emotions… and pain, but that might have been… me, not you…”

[alamondar]

That same sadistic smile remained on his face. “I could try that, but you weren’t cooperative before. My little friend here -” he glanced at his dagger, the aasimar’s blood dripping off of it -” changed that. You learned that you were weak.” The smile grew slightly wider. “You know, I don’t want to use such…crude methods…but I do enjoy it. I would suggest not giving me cause.”

"I am not, however, without some small measure of mercy." At this he glanced at the dried meats. "You will live, no, you will exist. For that is what you have done no? You have existed, not lived. You wander searching for a redemption that is beyond you: that is not living. That is existence without cause, without purpose. I propose a way out…Fiantha."

[fallenfiantha]

"I am… as cooperative… as I can be," Fiantha pointed out. "I still don’t… understand… what you want of me… besides a target… and you have already… threated my father." As if reason would avail her now… but it seemed to be all she had. She could not even call light to his eyes again, not without her hands free.

"Not… without purpose," she answered. "Not without cause. I have… a search. I have… work offered to me. I have… chances. I do not think… you can offer me anything I… would take from you… willingly."

[alamondar]

"You do not know what I want because I have not deemed you ready to know just yet." He tipped his head to the side. "I have no interest in your father. He is an old man that poses no threat to me or my plans. No, he can continue to live out his days…however many might be left."

"What use is a purpose you cannot fufill? What use is searching for things that cannot be found? You are Fallen. You are no longer the woman you were. You are wasting your life away. So I’ll concede that you have purpose. What I offer, then is a new life. A new beginning. A release, perhaps, from your pain. Consider your loss. The expression on your face as I mentioned your family indicates that they are no longer alive. They are dead and gone. Don’t you wish that were not so? They made you happy, I’m sure."

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha could not - would not - trust that the drow truly meant to leave her father alone… but she could hope. Even under these circumstances, bound hand and foot, a bolt wound in one shoulder and a stab wound in the other… despite all of it, she still needed her father to be safe. If she lost him, she truly had no one left.

She listened to her captor’s words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath’s care, and one day, perhaps, she’d see them again…

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he’d twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless…

"I am… Fallen," she conceded eventually, "and I have lost too much to be the person I once was… but as long as there is breath in me, I can try to be again the paladin I was intended to be. A release from pain would serve no purpose." As long as she remembered how she  had lost Seidon and Annen, it was impossible as well as pointless. Besides, the memory was as much goad as torture, and with some thin comfort in it; she would never willingly relinquish a single memory of them.

[alamondar]

He smiled wickedly. “You slew an entire village. Again, your current goal is hopeless. I know, because sometimes the drow will creep up from the Underdark, under the heavy curtain of night, and…” he traces a line across her neck to make his point. “Every last surface elf…dead. They exiled us in the beginning, you see. They forced us all underground. A once proud tribe damned…damned thanks to one lone goddess. We were punished for wanting little more than to advance ourselves. So we take our revenge…” 

"Find a new path. A new god, a new purpose. I will help you. Embrace what you know you are deep down inside." He caressed her.  He put on a mask of sympathy. But was it truly all fake? Not entirely, he realized. He slid in his verbal knife. "Don’t you wish to have that once more? To have a family, fill that hole deep inside? I lost my own House, that is, my entire family. I am alone now, so I understand…"

[fallenfiantha]

With one sentence he mimicked slitting her throat, speaking of how his kind murdered others for sport; with another he touched her almost tenderly, looking as though he understood her. She would not give him the satisfaction of shrinking away from his hand; even if she was bound and could not break free, she had her pride. It helped her keep her fear under control.

"Did you love none of those you lost?" she asked him, her tone somewhere between incredulity and scorn. "Seidon, Annen - they cannot be simply replaced, like broken toys! To even suggest it -" words failed her. How could he believe for a second -? Then she paled, as something else, hidden beneath his words, suggested itself to her.

He pretended sympathy, almost demanded it in turn, although he was her prisoner, the one who had wounded her. He would present himself as a guide to a new path (one of evil, she was certain) and someone on whom she could rely. Almost his words implied that he would be more, that he would replace her family himself.

No.

Never.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had… questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them… but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to…

… they had flayed her baby…

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. “What do you intend with me?” Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[alamondar]

He smiled. “That…depends on you. I’m curious about you. It seems that you surfacers are more complex than we had thought. You are not all simply weaklings. Do you have the will and indeed, the need, to continue on? Are you prepared to find out what you are truly meant to be?” 

He was silent for a few moments, studying her. “I get ahead of myself. Without warning, his dagger appeared as if it had always been in his hand and he stabbed her in the shoulder, savoring her scream. “Pain. It is an instrument to your body. It is something telling it that something is not right. In a fight, it often means that your technique was not good enough: that you need to adapt…to change. Could emotions not work the same way? Could it not drive you to realize that perhaps the way you’ve been taught is not the truth at all?”

[fallenfiantha]

She simply glared back at him, as fear and rage, guilt and grief all warred within her for dominance. His sadistic smile fed her fear; his words her rage and her determination - almost she answered him. And then she screamed, as his dagger ripped into a shoulder that had been uninjured before.

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

He seemed to be waiting for some response to his words. “If you want me… to listen…” she forced out between gritted teeth, “try talking… without the… stabbing. All I… caught… was something about… technique and emotions… and pain, but that might have been… me, not you…”

[alamondar]

That same sadistic smile remained on his face. “I could try that, but you weren’t cooperative before. My little friend here -” he glanced at his dagger, the aasimar’s blood dripping off of it -” changed that. You learned that you were weak.” The smile grew slightly wider. “You know, I don’t want to use such…crude methods…but I do enjoy it. I would suggest not giving me cause.”

"I am not, however, without some small measure of mercy." At this he glanced at the dried meats. "You will live, no, you will exist. For that is what you have done no? You have existed, not lived. You wander searching for a redemption that is beyond you: that is not living. That is existence without cause, without purpose. I propose a way out…Fiantha."

[fallenfiantha]

"I am… as cooperative… as I can be," Fiantha pointed out. "I still don’t… understand… what you want of me… besides a target… and you have already… threated my father." As if reason would avail her now… but it seemed to be all she had. She could not even call light to his eyes again, not without her hands free.

"Not… without purpose," she answered. "Not without cause. I have… a search. I have… work offered to me. I have… chances. I do not think… you can offer me anything I… would take from you… willingly."

[alamondar]

"You do not know what I want because I have not deemed you ready to know just yet." He tipped his head to the side. "I have no interest in your father. He is an old man that poses no threat to me or my plans. No, he can continue to live out his days…however many might be left."

"What use is a purpose you cannot fufill? What use is searching for things that cannot be found? You are Fallen. You are no longer the woman you were. You are wasting your life away. So I’ll concede that you have purpose. What I offer, then is a new life. A new beginning. A release, perhaps, from your pain. Consider your loss. The expression on your face as I mentioned your family indicates that they are no longer alive. They are dead and gone. Don’t you wish that were not so? They made you happy, I’m sure."

[fallenfiantha]

Fiantha could not - would not - trust that the drow truly meant to leave her father alone... but she could hope. Even under these circumstances, bound hand and foot, a bolt wound in one shoulder and a stab wound in the other... despite all of it, she still needed her father to be safe. If she lost him, she truly had no one left.

She listened to her captor's words, tried to think through the pain to untangle them. She could not prevent a swift inhalation, in shock or pain, as he spoke of her family. She should say something in response to his question, something about how they were safe, and happy, and in Eldath's care, and one day, perhaps, she'd see them again...

The words were not false. But they tasted like a lie as she tried to force her tongue to shape them.

And, truly, she was not well-suited to argue with the drow; already she was certain he'd twisted her words about, and some of what he said sounded like contradiction, but she was not sure how to defend herself without a weapon in her hand, and she was bound and all but helpless...

"I am... Fallen," she conceded eventually, "and I have lost too much to be the person I once was... but as long as there is breath in me, I can try to be again the paladin I was intended to be. A release from pain would serve no purpose." As long as she remembered how she  had lost Seidon and Annen, it was impossible as well as pointless. Besides, the memory was as much goad as torture, and with some thin comfort in it; she would never willingly relinquish a single memory of them.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had… questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them… but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to…

… they had flayed her baby…

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. “What do you intend with me?” Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[alamondar]

He smiled. “That…depends on you. I’m curious about you. It seems that you surfacers are more complex than we had thought. You are not all simply weaklings. Do you have the will and indeed, the need, to continue on? Are you prepared to find out what you are truly meant to be?” 

He was silent for a few moments, studying her. “I get ahead of myself. Without warning, his dagger appeared as if it had always been in his hand and he stabbed her in the shoulder, savoring her scream. “Pain. It is an instrument to your body. It is something telling it that something is not right. In a fight, it often means that your technique was not good enough: that you need to adapt…to change. Could emotions not work the same way? Could it not drive you to realize that perhaps the way you’ve been taught is not the truth at all?”

[fallenfiantha]

She simply glared back at him, as fear and rage, guilt and grief all warred within her for dominance. His sadistic smile fed her fear; his words her rage and her determination - almost she answered him. And then she screamed, as his dagger ripped into a shoulder that had been uninjured before.

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen… oh, Chauntea, your grace now…

He seemed to be waiting for some response to his words. “If you want me… to listen…” she forced out between gritted teeth, “try talking… without the… stabbing. All I… caught… was something about… technique and emotions… and pain, but that might have been… me, not you…”

[alamondar]

That same sadistic smile remained on his face. “I could try that, but you weren’t cooperative before. My little friend here -” he glanced at his dagger, the aasimar’s blood dripping off of it -” changed that. You learned that you were weak.” The smile grew slightly wider. “You know, I don’t want to use such…crude methods…but I do enjoy it. I would suggest not giving me cause.”

"I am not, however, without some small measure of mercy." At this he glanced at the dried meats. "You will live, no, you will exist. For that is what you have done no? You have existed, not lived. You wander searching for a redemption that is beyond you: that is not living. That is existence without cause, without purpose. I propose a way out…Fiantha."

[fallenfiantha]

"I am... as cooperative... as I can be," Fiantha pointed out. "I still don't... understand... what you want of me... besides a target... and you have already... threated my father." As if reason would avail her now... but it seemed to be all she had. She could not even call light to his eyes again, not without her hands free.

"Not... without purpose," she answered. "Not without cause. I have... a search. I have... work offered to me. I have... chances. I do not think... you can offer me anything I... would take from you... willingly."

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

Ruby eyes stared into hers, and the malice in them was apparent. “Oh? I won’t touch him? Last I checked…you are in no position to decide that. In fact, I could do anything I wanted, and you could not change anything. I have spared him, and yet you put his life in jeopardy with your insolence.”

And with that, he backhanded her. “Ah, but look at what you made me do. I had to discipline you. And have you not had enough of that? Haven’t you sought your redemption enough?” A smile once more grew on his face. “Do you not deserve something better?”

[fallenfiantha]

The blow knocked her down; with her hands bound behind her back, Fiantha landed heavily on her wounded shoulder. The pain of it knocked the breath from her, but she immediately began fighting her way upright again. “I… made you do… nothing…” she gasped the words out. “You chose.” Gods, he would harm her father?

"Discipline is… the foundation. This is not… discipline. And redemption is… more than I… have earned."

[alamondar]

A hand reached out and helped her upright. “Exactly. I wonder, did your god have to punish you, hm? Could Chauntea not have simply guided you? But no, she abandoned you. Balithor will abandon you. He is a tiefling, with infernal blood. His nature will set him against you, have no doubt.”

He stroked the side of her face. “You speak as if redemption for slaying an entire village can be had. No matter what your guilt, you cannot redeem. You cannot wash the blood from your hands, ever. Surely you know this.”

[fallenfiantha]

The aasimar shrunk back from the caress, as she had not from the knife.

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven… but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she’d enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her…

No, she could know that Chauntea’s forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once…

She said nothing more to the drow, the silence perhaps more expressive than further protests could be.

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had… questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them… but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to…

… they had flayed her baby…

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. “What do you intend with me?” Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[alamondar]

He smiled. “That…depends on you. I’m curious about you. It seems that you surfacers are more complex than we had thought. You are not all simply weaklings. Do you have the will and indeed, the need, to continue on? Are you prepared to find out what you are truly meant to be?” 

He was silent for a few moments, studying her. “I get ahead of myself. Without warning, his dagger appeared as if it had always been in his hand and he stabbed her in the shoulder, savoring her scream. “Pain. It is an instrument to your body. It is something telling it that something is not right. In a fight, it often means that your technique was not good enough: that you need to adapt…to change. Could emotions not work the same way? Could it not drive you to realize that perhaps the way you’ve been taught is not the truth at all?”

[fallenfiantha]

She simply glared back at him, as fear and rage, guilt and grief all warred within her for dominance. His sadistic smile fed her fear; his words her rage and her determination - almost she answered him. And then she screamed, as his dagger ripped into a shoulder that had been uninjured before.

He was still talking, she knew, but she only vaguely heard him, fighting with every breath to control the pain, to control herself. This.. so this was how it was to be. Torture - and gods, the reputation drow had for it - to whatever purpose he had in mind. She could have withstood, before, but Fallen... oh, Chauntea, your grace now...

He seemed to be waiting for some response to his words. "If you want me... to listen..." she forced out between gritted teeth, "try talking... without the... stabbing. All I... caught... was something about... technique and emotions... and pain, but that might have been... me, not you..."

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

Ruby eyes stared into hers, and the malice in them was apparent. “Oh? I won’t touch him? Last I checked…you are in no position to decide that. In fact, I could do anything I wanted, and you could not change anything. I have spared him, and yet you put his life in jeopardy with your insolence.”

And with that, he backhanded her. “Ah, but look at what you made me do. I had to discipline you. And have you not had enough of that? Haven’t you sought your redemption enough?” A smile once more grew on his face. “Do you not deserve something better?”

[fallenfiantha]

The blow knocked her down; with her hands bound behind her back, Fiantha landed heavily on her wounded shoulder. The pain of it knocked the breath from her, but she immediately began fighting her way upright again. “I… made you do… nothing…” she gasped the words out. “You chose.” Gods, he would harm her father?

"Discipline is… the foundation. This is not… discipline. And redemption is… more than I… have earned."

[alamondar]

A hand reached out and helped her upright. “Exactly. I wonder, did your god have to punish you, hm? Could Chauntea not have simply guided you? But no, she abandoned you. Balithor will abandon you. He is a tiefling, with infernal blood. His nature will set him against you, have no doubt.”

He stroked the side of her face. “You speak as if redemption for slaying an entire village can be had. No matter what your guilt, you cannot redeem. You cannot wash the blood from your hands, ever. Surely you know this.”

[fallenfiantha]

The aasimar shrunk back from the caress, as she had not from the knife.

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven… but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she’d enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her…

No, she could know that Chauntea’s forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once…

She said nothing more to the drow, the silence perhaps more expressive than further protests could be.

[alamondar]

He laughed at her, mocking her words that rang hollow. “Spoken as a true believer. And yet…no guidance? The Gods look at us mortals as nothing more than chess pieces in their wars, little more. She does not care. If she did, perhaps you would not be living alone with your father…with no sign of your husband or your daughter around.”

The drow never lost his smile. Her silence was telling him more than even she knew. It meant that he had touched upon something sentimental. The slaughter of the village…he’d have to find more about that. Yes, he’d have to pay the old man a visit soon. He exited for a brief moment, then returned with some dried meats. “But I…will not abandon you, no. I think there is more to you than even you realize, hm?”

[fallenfiantha]

Against that barb, too, she had no defence, nothing to say. She had... questioned, more than once, why she had been called away from the grove for that fateful attack. If she had only been there, she could have saved them... but she had been reporting to the temple, in obedience, in the knowledge that the Malarites did not usually attack so soon after their last assault, and she had returned to...

... they had flayed her baby...

Her voice was hoarse when he came back. "What do you intend with me?" Why had he taken her? How much did he know? What would he do?

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

[alamondar]

Ruby eyes stared into hers, and the malice in them was apparent. “Oh? I won’t touch him? Last I checked…you are in no position to decide that. In fact, I could do anything I wanted, and you could not change anything. I have spared him, and yet you put his life in jeopardy with your insolence.”

And with that, he backhanded her. “Ah, but look at what you made me do. I had to discipline you. And have you not had enough of that? Haven’t you sought your redemption enough?” A smile once more grew on his face. “Do you not deserve something better?”

[fallenfiantha]

The blow knocked her down; with her hands bound behind her back, Fiantha landed heavily on her wounded shoulder. The pain of it knocked the breath from her, but she immediately began fighting her way upright again. “I… made you do… nothing…” she gasped the words out. “You chose.” Gods, he would harm her father?

"Discipline is… the foundation. This is not… discipline. And redemption is… more than I… have earned."

[alamondar]

A hand reached out and helped her upright. “Exactly. I wonder, did your god have to punish you, hm? Could Chauntea not have simply guided you? But no, she abandoned you. Balithor will abandon you. He is a tiefling, with infernal blood. His nature will set him against you, have no doubt.”

He stroked the side of her face. “You speak as if redemption for slaying an entire village can be had. No matter what your guilt, you cannot redeem. You cannot wash the blood from your hands, ever. Surely you know this.”

[fallenfiantha]

The aasimar shrunk back from the caress, as she had not from the knife.

"Her mercy is great," Fiantha said, but the words had a hollow sound to them; a phrase learnt and repeated by rote, containing little faith to give them life. She knew that she was not beyond redemption, that even her sins could forgiven... but the knowledge was a cold, intellectual consideration. Deep within her heart, she would carry forever the memory of the dead of the village, those she had slain, and know that she could not atone for them. In an equally deep part of herself, she would remember, too, how it had felt, how she'd enjoyed even the bloodless slaughter, taking the children as Annen had been taken from her...

No, she could know that Chauntea's forgiveness was possible, but some part of her would never quite believe it.

And Chauntea had not abandoned her, would not, but how greatly she longed for the guidance of her goddesss - direct, clear and simple as it had been once...

She said nothing more to the drow, the silence perhaps more expressive than further protests could be.

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

It had always been her place, as a child. She’d spent hours in its branches, playing with Shandra, or thinking by herself, daydreaming of the glorious day she’d be one of Chauntea’s paladins. The lower branches were worn smooth, and she climbed it nimbly, without needing to think about it. Up to her favourite thick fork… she’d used to keep a cushion here… with her back against the trunk, Fiantha closed her eyes and sighed.

[alamondar]

Alamondar had retreated from his battle up north after the tiefling somehow managed to turn the tables on him, but he had escaped relatively unscathed for his trouble. Pity - neither the tiefling nor the woman he’d abducted could say the same. Still he remembered the woman he’d fought before the Neverwinter Ball, and his recruitment into Bregan D’aerthe.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

Casting a quick glance around, he bound and gagged the woman, then slung her over his shoulder. He took her to his horse outside the city limits, careful to avoid the guards. Then he rode for the Charwood, riding like a devil hellbent for vengeance. He deposited her into a cell inside a network of caves he had secured for himself, and slipped into the Reverie, more than willing to wait for the woman to wake up. He was well stocked in supplies…

[fallenfiantha]

Even in the familiar haven of her old climbing tree, the restlessness followed her - then suddenly turned to full-blown alarm, the sense of a clear and present danger, followed immediately by the piercing pain of a crossbow bolt burying itself in her shoulder. She grasped at the shaft, teeth gritted, preparing to pull it free even as she looked wildly for the assailant – but darkness clouded her mind, dragging her down into oblivion…

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Upright, finally, Fiantha began working at the gag – surely if the time had been taken to silence her, her voice posed some threat, or could help her… She pushed at it with her tongue, tried to rub it against her unwounded shoulder to loosen it – they would be a way out, Chauntea had not deserted her and neither had her capabilities, she was still alive…

[alamondar]

Alamondar snapped out of his Reverie at the sound of her stirring. My, but she was stubborn…and afraid. He considered the woman at length in the shadows, letting the anticipation of her meeting her captor rise. A plot began forming in his mind. He knew he had to find out more of her past - specifically, he needed people she cared about. But first, he had to tame her. To change her. 

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He opened the door, drew forth a wicked sharp dagger, letting the razor sharp point tickle her slightly. This was a test of discipline, to see if she could prevent herself from jerking and causing her self damage. It traveled down the side of her face he expertly flicked his wrist…and her gag fell away. “Venduii…Fiantha Kal.”

[fallenfiantha]

The light attracted her attention; Fiantha stopped working at the gag and raised her head. The drow! That gave her a who - because surely he could not be here to help her - and possibly a why… why he would go after her, at least, not why he would have taken her and imprisoned her, and gods, given the reputation of drow and of the little Balithor had said about this one in particular…

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid… but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been…

He cut her gag away, greeted her by name. Fiantha said nothing at first, working her jaw and trying to ease the discomfort. Her voice was hoarse and unsteady when she found it. “Why am I here?”

[alamondar]

He chuckled, the wicked sounded like it might have been better suited to that of a Pit Fiend. “You’re here because everyone has abandoned you. As a Fallen Paladin, does this not mean your God has abandoned you? If your God was with you, you would not feel as you do now, I’m sure. No… You’re here because I decided that you were worth the honor of my time…and my hospitality, even despite the whispers surrounding your name.” 

His dagger’s point, found the other side of her face, and began tracing the other side of her face. The anticipation was sometimes worse than the real pain, Alamondar knew. “Of course…since I tracked you down, bested someone else stronger than you in combat, would it not make sense that I am in fact being quite merciful? After all, I know of your father now…”

[fallenfiantha]

She opened her mouth to argue his point - she was Fallen, not abandoned, and if Chauntea no longer sheltered her from fear, that did not mean her goddess no longer cared for her, hospitality was not the same thing as being trussed up like a calf to be slaughtered - but said nothing as he traced along the other side of her face. Gods, it felt as though her heart was going to simply hammer free of her ribs… almost she wanted him to simply get on with whatever he was going to do.

But at his final words… her temper roused, suppressing fear, if not banishing it entirely. Her eyes widened, a flicker of fire behind the green, and her jaw set. “You will not touch him,” she said, less as defiance or pleading than as a flat statement. “He is old, and he has nothing to do with you. If you have some quarrel with me, after you bested me and retreated, that is one matter. Why should he concern you at all?”

[alamondar]

Ruby eyes stared into hers, and the malice in them was apparent. “Oh? I won’t touch him? Last I checked…you are in no position to decide that. In fact, I could do anything I wanted, and you could not change anything. I have spared him, and yet you put his life in jeopardy with your insolence.”

And with that, he backhanded her. “Ah, but look at what you made me do. I had to discipline you. And have you not had enough of that? Haven’t you sought your redemption enough?” A smile once more grew on his face. “Do you not deserve something better?”

[fallenfiantha]

The blow knocked her down; with her hands bound behind her back, Fiantha landed heavily on her wounded shoulder. The pain of it knocked the breath from her, but she immediately began fighting her way upright again. "I... made you do... nothing..." she gasped the words out. "You chose." Gods, he would harm her father?

"Discipline is... the foundation. This is not... discipline. And redemption is... more than I... have earned."

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

It had always been her place, as a child. She’d spent hours in its branches, playing with Shandra, or thinking by herself, daydreaming of the glorious day she’d be one of Chauntea’s paladins. The lower branches were worn smooth, and she climbed it nimbly, without needing to think about it. Up to her favourite thick fork… she’d used to keep a cushion here… with her back against the trunk, Fiantha closed her eyes and sighed.

[alamondar]

Alamondar had retreated from his battle up north after the tiefling somehow managed to turn the tables on him, but he had escaped relatively unscathed for his trouble. Pity - neither the tiefling nor the woman he’d abducted could say the same. Still he remembered the woman he’d fought before the Neverwinter Ball, and his recruitment into Bregan D’aerthe.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

Casting a quick glance around, he bound and gagged the woman, then slung her over his shoulder. He took her to his horse outside the city limits, careful to avoid the guards. Then he rode for the Charwood, riding like a devil hellbent for vengeance. He deposited her into a cell inside a network of caves he had secured for himself, and slipped into the Reverie, more than willing to wait for the woman to wake up. He was well stocked in supplies…

[fallenfiantha]

Even in the familiar haven of her old climbing tree, the restlessness followed her - then suddenly turned to full-blown alarm, the sense of a clear and present danger, followed immediately by the piercing pain of a crossbow bolt burying itself in her shoulder. She grasped at the shaft, teeth gritted, preparing to pull it free even as she looked wildly for the assailant – but darkness clouded her mind, dragging her down into oblivion…

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Upright, finally, Fiantha began working at the gag – surely if the time had been taken to silence her, her voice posed some threat, or could help her… She pushed at it with her tongue, tried to rub it against her unwounded shoulder to loosen it – they would be a way out, Chauntea had not deserted her and neither had her capabilities, she was still alive…

[alamondar]

Alamondar snapped out of his Reverie at the sound of her stirring. My, but she was stubborn…and afraid. He considered the woman at length in the shadows, letting the anticipation of her meeting her captor rise. A plot began forming in his mind. He knew he had to find out more of her past - specifically, he needed people she cared about. But first, he had to tame her. To change her. 

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He opened the door, drew forth a wicked sharp dagger, letting the razor sharp point tickle her slightly. This was a test of discipline, to see if she could prevent herself from jerking and causing her self damage. It traveled down the side of her face he expertly flicked his wrist…and her gag fell away. “Venduii…Fiantha Kal.”

[fallenfiantha]

The light attracted her attention; Fiantha stopped working at the gag and raised her head. The drow! That gave her a who - because surely he could not be here to help her - and possibly a why… why he would go after her, at least, not why he would have taken her and imprisoned her, and gods, given the reputation of drow and of the little Balithor had said about this one in particular…

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid… but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been…

He cut her gag away, greeted her by name. Fiantha said nothing at first, working her jaw and trying to ease the discomfort. Her voice was hoarse and unsteady when she found it. “Why am I here?”

[alamondar]

He chuckled, the wicked sounded like it might have been better suited to that of a Pit Fiend. “You’re here because everyone has abandoned you. As a Fallen Paladin, does this not mean your God has abandoned you? If your God was with you, you would not feel as you do now, I’m sure. No… You’re here because I decided that you were worth the honor of my time…and my hospitality, even despite the whispers surrounding your name.” 

His dagger’s point, found the other side of her face, and began tracing the other side of her face. The anticipation was sometimes worse than the real pain, Alamondar knew. “Of course…since I tracked you down, bested someone else stronger than you in combat, would it not make sense that I am in fact being quite merciful? After all, I know of your father now…”

[fallenfiantha]

She opened her mouth to argue his point - she was Fallen, not abandoned, and if Chauntea no longer sheltered her from fear, that did not mean her goddess no longer cared for her, hospitality was not the same thing as being trussed up like a calf to be slaughtered - but said nothing as he traced along the other side of her face. Gods, it felt as though her heart was going to simply hammer free of her ribs... almost she wanted him to simply get on with whatever he was going to do.

But at his final words... her temper roused, suppressing fear, if not banishing it entirely. Her eyes widened, a flicker of fire behind the green, and her jaw set. "You will not touch him," she said, less as defiance or pleading than as a flat statement. "He is old, and he has nothing to do with you. If you have some quarrel with me, after you bested me and retreated, that is one matter. Why should he concern you at all?"

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

It had always been her place, as a child. She’d spent hours in its branches, playing with Shandra, or thinking by herself, daydreaming of the glorious day she’d be one of Chauntea’s paladins. The lower branches were worn smooth, and she climbed it nimbly, without needing to think about it. Up to her favourite thick fork… she’d used to keep a cushion here… with her back against the trunk, Fiantha closed her eyes and sighed.

[alamondar]

Alamondar had retreated from his battle up north after the tiefling somehow managed to turn the tables on him, but he had escaped relatively unscathed for his trouble. Pity - neither the tiefling nor the woman he’d abducted could say the same. Still he remembered the woman he’d fought before the Neverwinter Ball, and his recruitment into Bregan D’aerthe.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

Casting a quick glance around, he bound and gagged the woman, then slung her over his shoulder. He took her to his horse outside the city limits, careful to avoid the guards. Then he rode for the Charwood, riding like a devil hellbent for vengeance. He deposited her into a cell inside a network of caves he had secured for himself, and slipped into the Reverie, more than willing to wait for the woman to wake up. He was well stocked in supplies…

[fallenfiantha]

Even in the familiar haven of her old climbing tree, the restlessness followed her - then suddenly turned to full-blown alarm, the sense of a clear and present danger, followed immediately by the piercing pain of a crossbow bolt burying itself in her shoulder. She grasped at the shaft, teeth gritted, preparing to pull it free even as she looked wildly for the assailant – but darkness clouded her mind, dragging her down into oblivion…

…and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now…

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Upright, finally, Fiantha began working at the gag – surely if the time had been taken to silence her, her voice posed some threat, or could help her… She pushed at it with her tongue, tried to rub it against her unwounded shoulder to loosen it – they would be a way out, Chauntea had not deserted her and neither had her capabilities, she was still alive…

[alamondar]

Alamondar snapped out of his Reverie at the sound of her stirring. My, but she was stubborn…and afraid. He considered the woman at length in the shadows, letting the anticipation of her meeting her captor rise. A plot began forming in his mind. He knew he had to find out more of her past - specifically, he needed people she cared about. But first, he had to tame her. To change her. 

Finally, after a few minutes enjoying her apparent fear, he got up silently and stepped up to the cell door. He then called forth light, letting her see him, with a smile on his face. It was cruel, and yet, strangely charming as well. This was Alamondar…dangerous…and tempting. “I can see fear in your eyes…it is good that you appreciate your situation.”

He opened the door, drew forth a wicked sharp dagger, letting the razor sharp point tickle her slightly. This was a test of discipline, to see if she could prevent herself from jerking and causing her self damage. It traveled down the side of her face he expertly flicked his wrist…and her gag fell away. “Venduii…Fiantha Kal.”

[fallenfiantha]

The light attracted her attention; Fiantha stopped working at the gag and raised her head. The drow! That gave her a who - because surely he could not be here to help her - and possibly a why... why he would go after her, at least, not why he would have taken her and imprisoned her, and gods, given the reputation of drow and of the little Balithor had said about this one in particular...

He approached her, light gleaming from the blade of a knife, and she could not prevent herself from shrinking back. He bent down, put its point against the side of her face - and although she trembled, she did not flinch away. Chauntea, she was so afraid... but she could master that, perhaps, she could survive, and if all else failed her, she would try to die as befitted the paladin she had been...

He cut her gag away, greeted her by name. Fiantha said nothing at first, working her jaw and trying to ease the discomfort. Her voice was hoarse and unsteady when she found it. "Why am I here?"

[fallenfiantha]

Changes (For Alamondar)

Despite the severity of her recent injuries, the ache in her muscles from the day’s work, and the comfort of her childhood home, Fiantha was too restless to sleep. She’d been in Hightcliff or almost a tenday now. Her father had been delighted to see her – if concerned over her condition – and it had been… good to see him again. Highcliff was rebuilding, and there was much she could do to help; if the people knew of her Fall, they also remembered her as the same child who’d chased their chickens, and they were kind.

Nevertheless, there was a tension in her that would not be eased. Perhaps she should have insisted on travelling with Balithor? Perhaps she should have gone north? Perhaps it was only that she felt like a coward, hiding at her father’s farm… in any case, whatever the case of her disquiet, it would not be easily dispelled.

So she did as she’d always done as a child, and padded out of her room and downstairs on bare feet to take an apple from the kitchen. Then, moving quietly, she left the house and crossed the paddock. The cloudy night presented no difficulty in finding her way; she’d gone this way so often that it was almost like a dance. The big rock there, the gap in the fence there (not as easy to squeeze through, now that she was no longer a child) and then to the ancient oak tree.

It had always been her place, as a child. She’d spent hours in its branches, playing with Shandra, or thinking by herself, daydreaming of the glorious day she’d be one of Chauntea’s paladins. The lower branches were worn smooth, and she climbed it nimbly, without needing to think about it. Up to her favourite thick fork… she’d used to keep a cushion here… with her back against the trunk, Fiantha closed her eyes and sighed.

[alamondar]

Alamondar had retreated from his battle up north after the tiefling somehow managed to turn the tables on him, but he had escaped relatively unscathed for his trouble. Pity - neither the tiefling nor the woman he’d abducted could say the same. Still he remembered the woman he’d fought before the Neverwinter Ball, and his recruitment into Bregan D’aerthe.

The woman fought like a madwoman, and it seemed that she had jumped to Balithor’s defense rather quickly. And yet….there were whispers around this town, Highcliff. He’d stalked the town for quite some time, and they said she was Fallen. And seeking redemption. At that moment…the diabolical drow decided it was indeed time to pay her a visit.

He found her after watching her carry out her day’s work from afar. She was up on a tree. Eyes closed, no less. His powers were indeed useful…He quietly pulled forth his hand crossbow and aimed. Drow sleep poison was a wonderful thing, truly. He fired the bolt into her shoulder, and it set to work immediately. She slumped over and fell out of the tree.

Casting a quick glance around, he bound and gagged the woman, then slung her over his shoulder. He took her to his horse outside the city limits, careful to avoid the guards. Then he rode for the Charwood, riding like a devil hellbent for vengeance. He deposited her into a cell inside a network of caves he had secured for himself, and slipped into the Reverie, more than willing to wait for the woman to wake up. He was well stocked in supplies…

[fallenfiantha]

Even in the familiar haven of her old climbing tree, the restlessness followed her - then suddenly turned to full-blown alarm, the sense of a clear and present danger, followed immediately by the piercing pain of a crossbow bolt burying itself in her shoulder. She grasped at the shaft, teeth gritted, preparing to pull it free even as she looked wildly for the assailant – but darkness clouded her mind, dragging her down into oblivion...

...and Fiantha woke slowly, aching in every limb. Small rocks dug into her cheek, and her wounded shoulder was agonising. With a sick fear in her stomach, she tried to move, to test – no. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, at wrist and elbow - she could not get so much as a finger to any of the rope. The binding about her ankles were equally secure; even when she arched backward, she could not find so much as a knot – and her fingers were stiff and clumsy. She’d been gagged, too – a foul-tasting piece of cloth that cut into the corners of her mouth – oh, Chauntea aid her now...

She suppressed her terror – who had taken her, why, where, oh gods – as she gradually worked her way upright, pushing against one wall of the stone cell. The air smelled dead – she must be underground somewhere – but her usual claustrophobia could only add an extra dimension to the near-overwhelming fear she felt. Oh, she had to keep a clear head – she was no longer a paladin, and Chauntea no longer shielded her from fear, but she could do this, couldn’t she?

Upright, finally, Fiantha began working at the gag – surely if the time had been taken to silence her, her voice posed some threat, or could help her... She pushed at it with her tongue, tried to rub it against her unwounded shoulder to loosen it – they would be a way out, Chauntea had not deserted her and neither had her capabilities, she was still alive...