Rook cupped her cold and numb fingers to her mouth, blowing into her hands in a futile effort to warm them against the frigid temperature. The shackles around the ranger's wrists rattled, but the noise was barely audible over the constant creaking and rattling of the barred carriage that bore herself and the other prisoners along the forest road.

A flurry of snow blew in on them until her shoulders were damp through her linen shirt, her cloak lost in the foothills of the Pendar Mountains where the agents of Lord Octa had finally caught up with her. She felt a flutter of nervousness again at the idea of what might await her at Lord Octa's fortress; there was little doubt that's where they were headed. The man had a reputation of being ruthless in his interrogation methods.

Lost in despairing thoughts, Rook snapped her head up in surprise when a panicked shout went up from outside their cage.

Kan Ironhead waited in the tree. He held his crossbow at the ready. He knew the plan and what to do. They very carefully told Kan that he had to wait for the wagon to pass under him before attacking. He knew that Rook was held prisoner in the cage. His blood was boiling. He wanted nothing more than to shoot the bolt into the wagon driver's eye. But he must wait... Waiting was hard for Kan.

He held his breath as the wagon and it's guards passed under him. None of them looked up. Nobody ever looks up. He waited..

There! The signal was given. Kan shot his bolt into the rear guard's back. Then he jumped from the tree pulling his large battleaxe off of his back. "It's a rescue! It's a rescue!" He swung his mighty battleaxe with both hands, killing another surprised guard. Rook, Kan is coming!

"Shades!" Terrick cursed as he looked up in time to see an arrow plunge into the carriage driver's chest. His adrenaline surged as his training and instincts took over and he jumped up next to the driver who was starting to slump forward. "FORWARD!" he hollered over the sudden chaos, knowing they needed to get past the spot of the ambush immediately. He slapped the driving reins against the horse's rump and the animal sprung forward, jerking the carriage so hard that those inside the moving prison were thrown to the back in a jumbled mess of limbs and shackles.

It's a rescue! Rook heard the cry as she struggled to untangle herself from the other prisoners. Kan?! The dark-haired ranger was filled suddenly with hope that she might escape whatever unpleasant fate awaited her at Lord Octa's fortress, but also with fear for her would-be rescuers. An assault against these well armed and armored men would likely cost dearly in injuries or even lives.

"Kan! Lookout!" she cried as she managed to extricate herself enough to look out the back bars in time to see Kan down one of the guards just as another of Octa's men swung a heavy club toward her friend. But a sudden gust of wind kicked up enough snow that she could no long see. By the time it cleared, the carriage had pulled far enough ahead that it's torchlight no longer reached the skirmish taking place behind.

"...Amateurs. So quick to jump into the frey of mortal combat..."

A voice, barely audible to the figures deeply involved in melee and the shrinking silluhette of the horse, carriage and prisoners, blew lightly across the winter breeze just like the snow. From behind another tree, like Kan Ironhead before him, another figure appeared from out of the shadows. But with the lack of light, one might falsely mistake the figure for shadows themselves. A dark cape flutting behind him and masking his face, he raised one arm towards one guard attacking Kan.

"...when their lives will end so soon."

Green. That was the first colour to appear from the figure's hand, a light that shun straight at the guard armed with a heavy club. One might question what they really saw that snowy night, but some might claim that the guard's eyes glowed in a same shade of green as the figure's green light, before slumping to the ground with a final breath. Mere humans rarely witnessed such acts, but Thaliar was no mere man. For Thaliar was an elf, one of few in the land of Lord Octa, one with the elven knowledge of magic. A branch of magic dabbling with...well, issues of life and death.

"Kan, keep them occupied! I'm going after the carriage!" Thaliar shouted to his more physical attributed companion, before seemingly vanishing once again into the shadows underneath his cape. But really, all he did was turn and run as fast as he could. Because really, hadn't anyone thought that this exact thing might happen? That the carriage would get away, and they'd need a plan B?

This was young Edwin's first assignment as one of Lord Octa's men-at-arms. He saw one of the raider standing in the middle of the road threatening the wagon's horses with a spear. With a mighty war cry of "Hail Octa!" Edwin charged the raider with his large shield in front of himself. He ran into the raider, knocking him off balance and pushing him off of the road. The road was now clear and the wagon bolted.

On the side of the road, Edwin fell on top of the raider, knocking the wind out of both Edwin and the raider.

---

Kan heard Thaliar's command. This is what Kan was good at and and he loved doing. Kan raised his battleaxe over his head with both arms and roared at Octa's troops, "I will kill you all!" He swung his battleaxe killing another guard, But then he was forced to use the staff of his axe to parry the attacks of two soldiers. Even while parrying the attacks, Kan kicked and stomped on the men attacking him. He continued to bellow at the enemy soldiers. He was drawing a crowd to himself.

The carriage bounced and swayed, repeatedly jarring the prisoners inside as Terrick urged the horse as fast as he dared on the rutted and snow covered road. But already the animal was struggling and slowing despite Terrick's efforts and for the first time he noticed the stocky horse was bleeding badly across its shoulder. It would not be able to keep up this pace much longer.

The sounds of battle were disappearing behind him and he realized the others had not heeded his call to push through the ambush. Or perhaps were simply unable to do so. If that was the case, the attackers would not be long in coming after the carriage. He urged the horse faster yet again until the carriage was well out of earshot of the ambush before bringing the horse to a halt. He held a blade in one hand as he jumped down and rushed to the back, hastily unlocked the padlocked door and roughly yanked out the nearest shackled prisoner, a brown-haired girl of average height and build.

As he re-secured the padlock, she lunged desperately for his short sword, but her chained wrists and stiff muscles made the movement awkward and Terrick elbowed her so hard across the cheek that she fell back. "You try that again, you get worse than that," he promised, hauling her quickly back to her feet, practically dragging her forward with him. He slapped the horse on the rump, sending it trotting forward once again, now driverless. Hopefully, that would buy him some additional time to get at least one of the prisoners back to Lord Octa. He hurried her away from the road and into the blustery, snowy woods.

Footsteps on cold, polished stone echoed through the dark and cavernous throne chamber. A bald, robed figure strode between the collonades that held up the vaulted ceiling he knew to rise into the darkness far above his head. The man dared not look into that darkness above him, lest he be reminded why his master's throne room was known as the Court of the Dead.

In the drafts that circulated through the great chamber's upper reaches, he could hear them rattle softly. Bones clinking together. Dried skins rustling against the hooked chains that suspended them from the ceiling. The earthly remains of at least one hundred of his master's victims hung on chains high above him. They served as grisly reminders of the power and cruelty of the master of this place. For those who served this dark lord, they served to encourage utmost loyalty and obedience - lest they join the Court's ever-growing ranks.

At the far end of this vast, dark chamber was a throne of black marble illuminated by two braziers filled only with dimly-glowing coals. On the great throne, sat the dark lord himself. The spymasters who roamed these lands told the populace that their lord was a stunningly-handsome man blessed with eternal youth; but the being that sat upon this throne seemed to be little more than a shriveled, mummified corpse. The robed minion knew better than to mistake the power of Lord Octa, and wisely laid himself prostrate before the throne.

"Speak," a disembodied voice echoed through the chamber.

"Your majesty," the robed figure said, still bowed down to the cold floor. "A carriage of prisoners arrived in the early morning hours."

"This gladdens me." Lord Octa's voice replied.

"Be advised, however, that not all is well. The carriage's jockey is missing, and one of the prisoners is missing. The cart itself was laden with arrows." The robed minion gulped nervously before continuing. "W-we believe the caravan it belonged to was the target of an ambush. The agents of the Revolt are afoot."

A terrifying silence settled over the chamber as the robed servant bore this news to Lord Octa. Only the rattling of bones above could be heard before Octa spoke again.

"Bring me the prisoners," Lord Octa demanded, "I shall see what became of this missing prisoner."

The darkness was an ever-lasting reminder of the power of Lord Octa ever since his iron reign began in these lands. A darkness that enveloped everything it touched, save from the just as shining beacons of hope that the Light gave. Tonight however, the Darkness was welcomed for the elf sprinting full speed thought the snowy night, for his people were gifted with night-sight. Gifted, or cursed, depending on how you looked at it.

Thaliar stopped. A sound, not far down the white path, echoed through the night. It was the sound of horses, and a carriage rolling away. There was no time to lose, and so he kept on running. And just as he got out of the temporary darkness, he saw the carriage and horses galloping away from him, and to his very luck, their target. The goal of the mission was being dragged away by one last guard into the woods. A smirk formed on the elf's lips, just before he vanished into the shadows again.

"You think the woods will help you? We'll see about that."

Dodging underneath low branches, jumping over stumps and rocks at speed, Thaliar found himself a short distance in front of the guard. The guard was still holding the female prisoner at the mercy of his blade. The whole reason they had agreed to take on the mission. In an instant, Thaliar let the magic within him flow freely through his arms, pulsating green flames from his finger tips as he made his presence known to the guard and the woman. One could even swear that the figure, arguably appearing like a ghost or the Undergods themselves in that dark night, laughing.

"Enough with this little game of Chase, guard of Lord Octa. Let her go, and I shall let you go back to your family, more or less unharmed."

The guard jumped when Thaliar made himself known. The guard held Rook by her shackled wrist and held his blade against her throat. "Get out of my way, Elf. If I don't bring her back with me, I won't have a family. Lord Octa wants her. You will not deny my Lord his prisoner." The guard didn't know what dark and evil deeds Lord Octa had in plan for her. He only knew that if he failed to bring the prisoner, he would have to replace her in Octa's plans.

That desperation was clearly seen in the guard's eyes.

---

Kan continued to battle the other guards back at the original ambush site. However, not his battle will play little part in the overall mission success or failure. He fought for his pride and life. The long handle of his battleaxe kept the guards at bay. If they approached to closely, Kan punished them.

The guards were getting tired and they knew that this fight was going to have little effect on taking the prisoners to the fortress. They became less and less eager to attack the large man with his mighty axe.

Rook was nearly as surprised to see Thaliar appear in front of them as Terrick was. The factions of the Revolt had been scattered with no clear leadership to unite them. But if her companions had joined with Thaliar, perhaps there had been progress in uniting the various groups. Or... she wondered darkly, had something befallen their own leader and they'd fallen under the magic wielding elf simply because there was no one else?

The knife pressed closer against her throat and she picked her head up slightly in an effort to keep the blade from scraping her skin. She could hear the tinge of desperation in the man's voice, but there was little she could do except comply for the moment and hope the rumors she'd heard about the extent of Thaliar's magic was true...

Rook and Terrick (except a lot less daylight!) :

Hands pulled her roughly from the prison wagon and the blonde elven woman made to offer protest but was rendered mute by the gag in her mouth. Azure eyes glared, promising malice. The guards yanked her, threw her from one guard to another and she almost stumbled, her bare feet scrabbling across the stone of the oppressive fortress as she struggled to maintain her balance. Unlike the other prisoners, this blonde elven girl, was both gagged and had her hands bound, the very fingers laced together with a leather thong. It was a sensible precaution. As a result, the sorceress simply couldn't cast her spells.

As one of the guards held her in a vise-like grip she gazed about the courtyard belonging to Lord Octa. It was an oppressive place. It seemed to her that it had been drenched in pitch and shadow, made as unwelcoming and dreary as was humanly possible. It was the sort of design that screamed out to abandon all hope.

The captive girl was an attractive thing, slender of limb and fair of complexion with smooth unblemished skin and hands that had likely never endured a callous. She was also dressed in the manner of a dancing girl, in sheer silks that did little to obscure her figure and a bustier that hugged her torso and boosted her bosom. If it hadn't been for one of her sorcerous objects, a ring upon her finger, she would have long ago succumbed to the frigid cold of the wagon.

A robed underling escorted a half dozen shackled prisoners through the passageways and corridors of the dark lord's fortress, each one accompanied by a man-at-arms. Under the careful eye of the guards, the prisoners had done little in the way of resisting. It seemed that they had dejectedly accepted what they presumed to be their fate: torment and death. These prisoners didn't know the half of it. If they had any idea what awaited them in the Court of the Dead, the bald-shaven minion of the dark lord was certain that each of them would be fighting against their captors with every ounce of strength left in them. They would wail and gnaw at their shackles if they had the faintest idea what the dark lord meant to do with them, for the victims of Lord Octa faced a fate worse than death.

The underling was thankful for the obliviousness of his thralls as it made the task of escorting them through the fortress much easier. This was as the dark lord intended. Lord Octa took care to ensure that no knowledge of his true nature made it beyond the fortress' ramparts to the ears of the populace. The dark lord's agents within the realm and abroad cultivated the rumor that Lord Octa was a dashing prince whose charisma and effective application of brute force had allowed him to conquer the realm and several neighboring principalities. Foreign informants and agents of the Revolt - the underling was sure there was at least one or two spies who dared operate within the very nexus of the dark lord's power - gave slightly-more accurate reports to the outside world as to who, or what, Lord Octa actually was. A demigod, perhaps? A demon?

The bald-headed minion was a learned man, and by his reckoning Lord Octa was best described as an aspiring lich. When the underling was a boy, Lord Octa served the king of the realm as a court warlock. But at some point, Lord Octa gained both the power and initiative to overthrow the king and claim the realm as his own. The underling remembered the years of the Usurping, back when he was still Agael and not just a nameless minion. Naive barons who believed to be fighting for increased autonomy allied themselves with the rising Lord Octa against the Crown Prince and his loyal armies. By the time the dark lord's true intentions were clear to the upstart barons, Lord Octa's magic was too powerful to resist. Few people survived from the tumultuous years of the Usurping, and the peasant rabble outside the fortress' walls knew next to nothing about how their dark lord came to be. The bald-headed minion who had once been Agael was one of rather few men alive who knew the truth behind Lord Octa, and or that alone the dark lord could add another withered corpse to the Court of the Dead.

As he recounted the Usurping and the rise of Lord Octa to himself, the bald-headed minion had reached the gates of the the dark lord's throne room. They were great, heavy double doors of burnished iron, flanked on either side by a pair of the dark lord's imposing dread knights. Despite being called knights, the underling recognized that it was quite probable that these redoubtable guardians could very well be nothing more than suits of armor enchanted by the dark lord to serve as ever-vigilant sentries. Once at the doors to Lord Octa's chambers, the men-at-arms knew to leave the prisoners for the underling and the dread knights to handle; the only ones who were permitted to lay eyes on the dark lord were his robed lackeys and those unfortunate souls who would never live to recount the tale.

With the guards out of sight, the enchanted armor suits clasped the door handles in their mail-clad fists before opening the doors and ushering the prisoners into the Court of the Dead.

"Oh it isn't I that will deny Lord Ocra the imprisonment of Rook. That will be The Gatekeeper Himself."

The green aura swurling through and around Thaliar's hands, suddenly shined brighter than the sun at it's highest. Their surroundings basket in a sick green light, illuminating the dark sleeping trees now gone into hybernation for the winter, before it all turned dark again. But in that short moment of light, the three characters saw what the Elf truly could wield.

Like rays of light through a cloudy sky, the green light burst from Thaliar's hands, shooting though the air before suddenly going into the ground. For a moment one could see something green make its way through the snowy ground of the woods, sillhueting sleeping plants and creatures, before shooting up again undearneath Rook and the guard. A sound of cracking bones, flaking cloth and skin, and the whimpered gasp of air was the last thing that was heard from the guard, as the knife dropped down into the snow silently.

Thaliar stepped forward, the green aura getting dimmer with every step he took towards Rook. But the smirk on his face remained as he held out a hand to the ranger. "Good to see you again, Rook. You won't believe what we've been through to track you down. Almost feels like you didn't want to be rescued."

Rook gasped in shock as Thaliar's magic came toward them and attacked the man holding her, leaving her unharmed. It seemed the rumors about the elf's power were not much exaggerated after all. It was unlike anything she had ever witnessed and she couldn't help herself but glance at the remains of the guard on the snow covered ground.

She looked back at the elf after just a moment, seeing his hand extended toward her and she stepped close to him to allow herself to be lead, favoring her right leg and leaning on him for both warmth and support.

She did manage a small smile at his efforts to lighten the mood. "Stealing me right out from under ole Octa-pussy's nose. He won't be too pleased with you." She knew the decision to rescue her had as much to do with tactics as it did a sense of camaraderie. She had the potential to reveal damaging intel about the Revolt.

"There were others..." she told him, "...in the wagon. I didn't know them."

------

Kaden held himself erect as he was marched toward Lord Octa's throne room along with the others and next to the blond, scantily clad elf woman, as if he were nothing more than some kind of common criminal! He'd been given over to Lord Octa's men by his father, Lord Tobler, as a political hostage. It wasn't his father's fault, he knew. It was that or openly start a war with Octa, one in which his family could not hope to win.

While he hadn't expected quite the same level of accommodation he received at home, he had expected to be treated with some level of respect his status deserved. But they'd barely left his father's territory when he had found himself shackled and thrown in with this lot!

He'd been seething now for days, planning what he'd say to Lord Octa when he finally met him, about this unacceptable treatment, about how stupid his men were, and about how Lord Tobler would not stand for this sort of egregiousness against his family! It was not until the group was ushered into the 'Court of the Dead' that Kaden felt his first hint of doubts emerge...

The robed minion who had once been Agael heard the doors to the Court slam shut, sealing the doom of the prisoners he and the dread knights were escorting toward the throne. Behind him, some of the prisoners were taking in their new and macabre surroundings. Some made the mistake of looking up into the ceiling. Why must they always look up? Agael thought to himself.

Up in the looming darkness, the shackled thralls could faintly make out the grisly display hanging by chains from the ceiling above. Mummified cadavers, sinew-bound skeletons, and flayed skins dangled from above like so many macabre mobiles. Some hung listlessly in the darkness, and others shuddered gently in the drafts, but there were a few victims that wriggled weakly against the metal hooks that dug into their bodies. The Court of the Dead was not the most accurate name for this place, for not all of its victims were yet truly dead.

The dread knights presented the shackled prisoners to the foot of the black throne before standing rigid still. There, the prisoners were granted their first glimpse of the master of these lands.

"Is that you?" A bearded and scarred prisoner scoffed, gesturing to the shriveled being seated upon the throne with his shackled hands. The smell of grog wafted from his lips with every breath. "That's you? The dark lord himself? The Great Lord Octa in the flesh? Pah! You're naught but a damned prune! You don't scare me you miserable mumblecrust!"

The rigid being on the throne twitched slightly. There was an audible crackle - akin to the sound of a handful of dry leaves being crushed between two hands as Lord Octa's head turned to the heckling prisoner. With a loud series of pops and dry ripping sounds, the dark lord ascended from his throne and slowly hobbled down the steps of the raised dais upon which the throne was placed. A cracking pop sounded from Lord Octa's knees and legs with each step. The dark lord shambled toward the shouting prisoner.

"Look at you, you pathetic wretch. You can't even walk. You're no more a threat than the village drunkard. Face me like a man! Unshackle me, and I'll teach you some manners you damnable catamite! I will shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be-"

At that moment, one of the dread knights seized the bearded prisoner, grasping him on the shoulders with vice-like chainmail gauntlets. As the prisoner struggled against his captor, Lord Octa stood before him. A gray, bony hand reached out to the prisoner's forehead - who was too surprised to say or do anything to resist. Lord Octa placed his cold, lifeless hand upon the prisoner's brow. As soon as the dark lord's palm was pressed upon his forehead, the bearded prisoner crumbled. A cloud of dust billowed to the floor, settling as a heap of disarticulated bones and dust, the shackles clanged against the stone tiles amidst freed knuckle bones and dusted.

The remaining prisoners watched in abject horror as the arm that had touched the prisoner's forehead now swelled with life, the desiccated flesh on Lord Octa's left arm had returned to a peachy, lifelike hue. The life essence drained from the prisoner distributed itself throughout the dark lord's body until he resembled as a pale, wrinkled human more than a mummified revenant. The dark lord gasped as air filled to his restored lungs, and his movements were more natural and flowing. Lord Octa now appeared before the remaining prisoners as a living man - but barely so.

"One of your fellow prisoners was freed before they could be delivered to me," Lord Octa said to the surviving prisoners with his own voice. "I want this escapee back. The lot of you will tell me precisely what happened during the journey here." Lord Octa gestured with a newly-invigorated hand to the pulverized flesh and bones on the floor behind him, "or you will meet a similar end."

Lord Octa looked over the remaining prisoners and beckoned for the elven girl to be brought before him. One of the dread knights grasped her firmly by the shoulders. He gestured to have her gag removed.

"Be cautious, your majesty," Agael whispered into the dark lord's wizened ear. "She is an elf, and I fear she may have some magical prowess."

"That would make two of us," Lord Octa dismissed as the mail-clad fingers of the dread knights untied her gag. "If she attempt whatever pitiful magic she can conjure against me, she will make the greatest miscalculation of her life."

"Now," Lord Octa said, turning back to the ungagged elven girl. "Speak."

"That's an understatement, dear. I picture him do tremendous pain to the other prisoners who were taken..."

The lifted mood that both of them had tried to create, wasn't easy to maintain as the realization of the other prisoners' fate become apparent. It wasn't just for show that Lord Octa's caste was called "Court of the Dead". "But you were the target of our quest. The others were a secondary priority, I'm afraid. And achiving more than that seems a luxury these days."

Thaliar supported Rook the best he could, leading her back towards the ambush sight all of this mess had began just a few minutes ago. The darkness seemed to be accompanied by the sound of silence; at least from where the two were, the sound of melee had ceased. But for all Thaliar knew, Kan had simply resorted to brutal fist-fighting, a quieter approuch than usual. But what had really happened, remained to be seen.

"The good thing is that we finally got you. But there's bad news too...we rescued you for more than just the fear of spilled information...I'm afraid we are running out of time, so to speak..."

Even after being nearly carried across the grand hall and having her gag removed it took several long moments for the elven woman to speak. Her azure eyes were wide. Her mouth worked with futility, forming shapes but without eliciting words. Images of what transpired above her in the rafters assailed her mind, worked her imagination even without her eyes beholding them. The rustling and occasional moan only enhancing the horrors her mind crafted.

In the back of her mind she realized she needed to hold something back, keep something in reserve to barter with but the thought of what was above goaded her. It was hard to think when the consequences of failure were screaming in her pointed ear. What if they had tried the same thing? Maybe she needed to provide something of value, a service perhaps? The lord was a magician himself. What would he have need of her services for, surely he could scry for himself? Maybe she could offer... companionship? The very thought sickened her and this lord seemed to find solace in unspeakable horrors, pleasures of the flesh indeed, but not those she would willingly offer.

She didn't want to be hung up like a side of beef. By all the gods above, he couldn't afflict her soul could he, shatter it or consume it? Is that what he'd done to the other prisoner or had it just been his mortal shell he'd consumed?

She had been thinking all these things and more, her mind racing, coming up with ways to save herself while at the same time imagining all the horrors that awaited her and realized the entire time she'd had her thoughts racing she'd been babbling, spewing incoherent nonsense involving begging not being flayed alive, not to have her soul shredded and a dozen other things.

She gazed up briefly through the tangled mess of once shimmering golden tresses and regretted it. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to see what was beyond him or above him. She just wanted to leave. Hell, she almost just wanted to die so long as she didn't end up like the others above or worse...

"-driver took her," she managed, her words finally coalescing, "the driver took her- took her into the woods- I don't know- to get the wagon through or maybe to trick the rebels into following the wagon instead of him. I don't know. I'm so sorry. I don't know. Please don't hurt me."

This was young Edwin's first assignment as one of Lord Octa's men-at-arms. He saw one of the raider standing in the middle of the road threatening the wagon's horses with a spear. With a mighty war cry of "Hail Octa!" Edwin charged the raider with his large shield in front of himself. He ran into the raider, knocking him off balance and pushing him off of the road. The road was now clear and the wagon bolted.

On the side of the road, Edwin fell on top of the raider, knocking the wind out of both Edwin and the raider.

Dane had been too focused on trying to keep the horse from running forward and hadn't even seen Edwin coming until the shield slammed into him. The spearman cursed his own stupidity as his back smacked the snow covered ground and the carriage surged ahead.

He abandoned the spear immediately, knowing it would be of little use to him now. Instead, he grabbed a handful of snow and threw it toward Edwin's eyes while trying to roll the younger man off of him.

---

Bad news. Rook steeled herself against what Thaliar might tell her. But bad news seemed the norm these days. "Has the base been compromised?" she speculated. If so, they'd have to find a new base of operations. But his tone suggested something else.

"That, and more..." Thaliar was not one to struggle with words, and frankly he didn't like when words become one's only weapon; orators, public speakers and bards, they didn't know the true power of words, not like himself. He enjoying taunting them, throwing in a few witty comments and that. Okay, maybe he DID enjoy it a bit?

The duo continued through the woods, soon approaching the road where the ambush had taken place. Thaliar hadn't elaborated further on the bad news, but did so now; "Captain Zula was captured and excecuted not many moons ago. We still haven't found a new base of operations, and I'm afraid we don't have much time to spare in that effort frankly. But what we had time for was..." Thaliar sighed briefly. "...a vote. And I was chosen as the new Captain...There's no more to say about that, other than the other factions don't look upon my promotion with joy."

Lord Octa's half-restored eyes were still glassy-white, and so the elven girl could not see the dark lord roll his eyes as she begged for mercy.

"She," Lord Octa repeated. "It would seem my missing prisoner is a woman." Lord Octa turned back to his bald-shaven minion. "Do we have record of any other women who were to be sent here?"

"I am afraid not, your majesty," Agael reported. "It appears that the carriage manifest and dossiers were lost in the ambush. We haven't a clue who these people are nor their crimes against you. However, I could dispatch a rider to the gaol from whence this carriage came, and determine who is missing."

"That will take time," Lord Octa declared. "And time is the one resource I have in short supply."

"Who are you?" Lord Octa asked of the elven girl. "Why have you been sent unto me? Be warned: speak falsehoods to me, and I will destroy you. But if you are honest with me, then I may spare you, for there is a chance that you are worth more to me alive."