You are now my enemy, and I am yours.

[Alysia Skye]

You and I were long friends: you are now my enemy, and I am yours.
--Benjamin Franklin


In sleep, she smelled blood and stone. The blood was her own. The stone was not. The walls about her were, in fact, warded against the priestess. Half-aware, she had tried to shadowshift away, to summon a gate, to tear down the walls with a storm of fire and wind -- to no avail save exhaustion.

In sleep, her wounds throbbed and began to heal, leaving a certain, spent hunger behind in place of scars. That hunger was undeniable bloodthirst, only partially mitigated by still-unfamiliar fae magic that tingled against the palm of her hand.

In sleep, she dreamed.

In dreams, the sound of her truename echoed in her ears like the bass rumble of nearing thunder.

---

Tis my understanding that one that is under the protection of Blood House Onyx, and House Skye placed another also under our collective protections into harms way. I nae know if this be fair means or foul, however tis a concern.

I do not dictate to you the policies of your House, madame DeAuster. Do not presume to dictate mine.

Then I warn ye now Lady Skye. Should the one ye protect lure Tara with such manipulations again, the cumulative results will nae fare well for many. My telling ye this is nae to cast aspersions upon ye house, but warn ye, alliances hang in the balance over petty behaviors.

I know of no alliance between your house and mine, Madame. Save for certain informal courtesies, that is, owing to common acquaintances. If you have a -request- to make, I may consider it. If, however, you prefer to make indistinct threats and banter vagueries, feel free.

Actually Milady Skye, I was going to suggest ye speak with the one that tried to use Tara as a tool. However ye are nae terribly reasonable are ye.

I've never been reasonable, Fiona.

...Favor done Milord. Now ye best hold to my boon. Tara is nae to be ye target, unless she physically attacks ye with the intention to bring ye serious harm.


A favor, was it?!

...Something amiss, Lady Skye?

Veighn, you have caused enough dissent among those I am obliged to protect. Piss off, already.

Ye pardon? Have I done such? I stand here and now, and am open to a conversation should ye wish to recount to me the grievous offense I have given. For it is something that I am quite surly, nae aware of having a hand in. Perchance, I could rely upon ye gracious nature to grant me the reasoning for such harsh tones directed toward mineself.

You know damned well that I do not have a gracious nature. Do not count on our former alliance protecting you from me or mine anymore, Veighn.

Ye mean to break our alliance. That is nae something I like to hear. Perhaps then, we can smooth over wounds so insult is nae added to injury. Walk with me Alysia, I have nae a poisoned dirk stashed away. I mean ye no harm and offer a peaceful truce to sooth ye ire. I give ye mine solemn promise, no harm shall come to ye as he speak with me. It seems there must needs some loose ends tied and some correction of what is apparently, some sort of misunderstanding.

Guthorm is right. You are a coward, Veighn.

Chryrie, ye life hangs by a thread. It is Alysia's decision that decides which face the coin shall fall upon.

Her life is not yours to take. Veighn, I do not think you will get what you want from little games, ill-conceived goading, and artless manipulation. Those little favors have a way becoming larger and larger. You spoke of a choice, Veighn? ... What choice was that?

Ye options are as they have always been. To cede peacefully from the alliance, and leave all to rest as future events unfold. Hold true to the alliance, if not sanctify it to make it more binding, by way ye precious fae will be divorced from mine attentions permanently. Or, stand against me in open, bloody War. As far as I know, ye are currently taxed on one front. Do ye truly wish to make it two? I for one, donnae. Ye safety, to me, is of the utmost importance. But nae at the cost of mine.

Your sources, I think, are quite out-dated. I find myself free to devote all my resources to eradicating threats on other fronts. I will not suffer an alliance that requires me to stand idly by and watch you bait my consort and bully the helpless.

Then prey tell, what is ye decision.

If you have . . . let us say, a completely unlikely change of heart, one which leaves you disinclined to goad those I care for, to treat people as chess pieces in your little games -- then I think we may peacefully shed the remnants of an ill-conceived alliance. Otherwise, I will enjoy twisting your soul into a cage, to amuse me in idle moments. I take it you understand my meaning, Veighn.

Alysia, why would ye resort to one of ye more powerful means of dispatching me? So openly even? The mention of that just stirs the desire to keep ye from harms way, my dear Priestess. Perhaps, even from ye own tendencies. I have much more to offer, and do ye think for one moment I wouldn't have contingencies in place, even now?

There is no telling what lengths I might go to, in order to indulge a whim. Particularly when you have nothing to offer that is of worth to me. What would you offer? Chryrie's life? She could flay you. Lucien's? He is mortal. The day of his death has already been written.

Flay me? She can try. Lucien, aye, ye are most correct about that fact. What I have to offer is beyond the life of friends and those ye have familial ties with. The question is, are ye intrigued enough to know them, or are ye going to stand alone and continue to goad me. Ye diplomacy skills have greatly depreciated in these few moments, Priestess, and I would grant ye a moment to gather ye faculties about ye once more. Aye, I presume to grant ye the time to take out mine suggestion! Ye listen, and well priestess. Mine offer is nae infinite, but quite the opposite. If ye mean to venture this storm, then I have nae the cause to attempt to detour ye. Though, I tell ye true, what ye know of me and what I can do, ye donnae know all. I am much harder to put down than ye can imagine, and it will be a long and expensive war for all whom wish to become involved.

Diplomacy has never been a strong point of mine, and I do not believe you have anything other than empty words to offer, Veighn. You have yet to deliver anything of use to me. If you have nothing now other than words and pleas for diplomacy, you will see my standards.

[Alysia Skye]

“I offer you a glimpse behind the veil...” said Veighn. He spoke the next name into the threads of the inbetween, sculpting it so only Alysia herself heard. Her truename, her own given name, the name by which she could be summoned. She was stunned to hear it spoken by Veighn, and it was a struggle for her not to react. He continued relentlessly. “Then, will ye know what knowledge is forbidden to many of even ye own ilk. I have walked long and far, and I have seen many things. Accept, and ye cannae go back. Deny, and ye will be safe to formulate your doubts against me, and then raise your standards. Nae harm shall befall ye in this. I so swear it. Do ye accept?”

Names had power. This was true for mages, more so for demon-born. Fighting off a certain lassitude that fogged her thoughts and will even as it focused her thoughts on Veighn’s words, Alysia responded, “You would tempt me with a certain power. I would see you grovel and beg for forgiveness from Chryrie before I accept. I would see you bind yourself to my will, before I accept. Else I would be a fool to put away my standards and call off my hounds."

“I seek naught the forgiveness of Chryrie.” His brow piqued. “Is this ye final decision?”

“Truly,” said Alysia. Her voice was chill with fury, sharp with anger. “Well that you should watch your back, Veighn Yhaull, guard yourself even in your sleep, and pray that you may call in more "favors" - for when we clash, you will need them.”

“Ye have a fortnight. Make wise and judicious use of the time.”

Green flame blossomed on the palms of Alysia’s hands. “Who needs a fortnight,” she mocked.

“Once, blood has passed my flesh at your behest. Now, tis mine time to return such a favor, Lady Skye.” His staff cracked against his bracers, and the sound of wind erupted around him, carrying with it any remnants of shadow lingering near his frame.

As the conflict was joined, Alysia's reflexes slowed, and she felt barbs of shadow pierce her arms, anchoring against bone and tearing muscle. Her innate reaction was primal and unthinking, to scour the place with fire – which would have damned any unwary bystanders and still left the Black Wizard standing. A thought from Chryrie stilled that reaction.

And Chryrie cast sorceries alarming to behold, throwing the purified fury of elemental ice against shadow. Ice, which blistered flesh. From some distant memory, the priestess heard Llehlnia chuckling with approval. For a moment, Alysia grappled with Veighn, trying to choke him with a blood-slick hold before being thrown aside.

There came a shift of gravity, the stink of cold-iron, wrapped in a lurid emerald glow. “Ye should have accepted mine offer,” croaked Veighn. His voice gurgled, and his throat had been pierced. Ichor ran down his immaculate robes.

“Pride will slay us both,” Alysia hissed. The flashing lightstorm within the Inn, a shifting brilliance of fae magics, chaos sorcery, and unholy wizardry grew. Shadows danced crazily on the walls. Veighn surrounded himself with an anti-magic field, and ozone crackled against the edges. Dazzled and numb, she stepped aside in the oasis of still, dead air, trying to anticipate Chryrie’s movements. A moment of hesitation was betrayed as she reached first for her katana, discarded it with a scowl, and took up her soulsword instead.

In that moment of hesitation, the Lunithalylian moved impossibly fast. He leaned forward and shot toward Alysia's spell-dazed form. Obviously, the encounter had taken much from her, much more than she'd prepared to endure tonight. Aware that his chance was fleeing each moment he fought with Chryrie, Veighn slammed into Alysia, bullrushing her over a table and out of the circumference of the circle of anti-magic. Once out, magic flared again, and they winked, teleported out of the inn. Alysia had just been absconded with, and judging by the way she’d been impacted, she might not have been conscious during the airborne fall.

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

Abduction: Immediately after

The Lunithaylian Shar’Vae stepped forth from nothingness into the suite of elegant rooms that were to serve as Lady Skye’s prison. She was on the second level from the ground floor; in castle terms, it meant she was affectively taken to the third floor of the Keep. This might seem insignificant to many, however, this Chateau stood at the apex of a mile-high spike of earth jutting like a lance-point to tear at the sky above the surrounding woodlands near the Dark Lake and its Caldera. He carried her through the apartment’s sitting area and dining room to the bed chamber, depositing her unconscious form roughly atop the bed. It was then that his Tiefling witch, appeared silhouetted in the doorway of the room.

Diplomacy has never been a strong point of mine, and I do not believe you have anything other than empty words to offer, Veighn. You have yet to deliver anything of use to me. If you have nothing now other than words and pleas for diplomacy, you will see my standards. The memory of her words echoing in her mind as he stared down at the dark, unconscious beauty. “Perhaps diplomacy is nae a merit of ye nature, Alysia, but ye will learn the consequences of discarding it to besmirch mine honor, Witch. Ye will pay the tithe for ye sin of blind pride!” He glowered, turning abruptly and stalking toward the east door.

“Remove her clothing and her weapons, Malvhista.” He barked in commanding tones. “Have her stripped from the ruin of her clothing and her weaponry. I want the Priestess’ body scrubbed thoroughly and oiled in a scent appealing to mine senses. Dress her in a sleeping gown, house robe, and the jeweled slippers from Dar’Thalin. Send for me when ye are finished. Do nothing more; I warn ye, I don’t want a repeat of last time!”

The Tiefling lowered her chin, trying to hide the smile her master would know full well was there. “But her hair is so pretty. Her eyes, they’re so darling, like yours, milord. Ye truly mean to bar from me such pretty souvenirs?” Said the seductive voice from the door way. She was already moving toward the wardrobe, laying out the attire requested.

“Molest her in her hampered state, and I shall separate ye soul from ye body, and make you watch as you feel me slice the flesh of ye shell, and peel it away from the sinew of ye frame with chains of Shar’Vae Shade.” Veighn then disappeared into the other room with the in a flourish of whirling magical flame, shadow, and robes, power leaking flowing forth as he nullified the effects of muting wards and potent glamour.

After the clothing was situated in a neat pile, she moved over to the bed where Alysia lay, glancing to the doorway to make sure HE wasn’t looking on. She then leaned down over lady sky, barbed tail lifting the edge of her flowing dresses to slowly slither up her calf and thigh like a roaming serpent. “So pretty Priestess, master forbids I have my way with ye. That’s unfortunate. Expected, but unfortunate none the less.” She busied her self with the collecting of Alysia’s weaponry first, weaving spells and taking other precautions to try and bypass any protective or anti-theft magics in place on the tools of war. “I have noted in his memoirs that he respects ye. I see now, partly why. Oh, but ye ARE a dulcet little thing…” She whispered huskily into the shell of her ear as her tail barb cut free some of the cloth from her hip. “Oops! Look what I’ve gone and done. We’ll have to keep ye as our guest if this keeps up. We cannae have ye leaving looking afright. Come, luv, let us get ye out of these rags.” The touched her full lips to Alysia’s neck, planting a moist kiss upon her flesh. “Fire and demons, I could ravish ye for hours if there was a way he wouldn’t know.” She added, licking her lips as the Malvhista got her ready for the bathing ritual. “So beautiful!” she exclaimed.


Imprisonment: One Hour Later

“What is her progress?” He announced himself present behind her as she exited the suite of chambers with the weaponry and tattered cloathing, effectively startling her when he appeared.

Even tainted in blood, she shrunk away from him when his aura of fear was not left muted. “M-m-Milord! Ye startled me!” She squeeked, holding the items to her chest as if to keep her heart from bursting free of its cage.

“Progress!” He demanded impatiently, glaring at the his resident witch and servant.

“She sleeps, Milord. Though the most peculiar thing happened when I was attending to her in the sunken bath."

Veighn’s features grew grim, his eyes searching and suspicious.

“I’ve done as ye’ve b-bid, Milord! I beseech ye, search my mind if ye have any doubt.” She stammered at the look, nearly quailing in horror at the subtle change in his visage.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” He stroked her cheek with a clawed hand, his smile warming, as well as his expression.

She began in a trilled purr, “Aye, she is most exquisite. The conture of her body, the shape of her bre-eechhh-eechh!” The floor began to leave the bottoms of her feet, and she pointed her toes as she dangled above it. His hand had fastened itself around his throat, talons biting into the sides of her neck, cutting her.

“She is nae here for ye amusement, servant! She is here for mine, and her thorough punishment for betrayal. I know she’s asleep. I saw. Take that long again in the preparation of a prisoner, and I’ll feed ye to yeself. What were ye thinking? Even unarmed, she is still dangerous. Had she awakened, she’d have drown ye in ye own blood.” He released her, and she fell into a crumpled heap at his feet.

Her hands rubbed at the dark mark of a bruise at her throat, smearing blood there as she frowned, having been struggling for breath. “A..” cough.. “Aye, milord. I shall nae take so long again, milord.” She trembled. “Milord, I was nae thinking. I have needs too, milord.”

“Your needs, Malvhista, are what I tell ye they are. However, I will tell ye what they are not. Ye are nae to openly, or privately, lust for the priestess. Should ye so much as make her feel anything but a guest in mine domain, I’ll hand her a spoon to take ye head off with. Now go, before I fall to the urge of crushing ye skull with mine foot!” He pointed down the hall, and she scrambled with the weaponry

“Leave the weapons in mine Laboratory.” He called after.

“Aye, Lord Yhaull. As ye will, Lord Yhaull.” She grumbled as she clopped down the hall on cloven-hooves.

Imprisonment: Midnight

He sat in one of the comfortable leather highbacks in the room, his feet crossed at the ankles atop an otoman adjacent to the bed. He had, in hand, a saucer of cream and a bowl of strawberries in his lap, which he was nibbling on as he watched her sleep. It wasn't soon after he'd relaxed, that she started to stir again.

There is no telling what lengths I might go to, in order to indulge a whim. Particularly when you have nothing to offer that is of worth to me. What would you offer? Chryrie's life? She could flay you. Lucien's? He is mortal. The day of his death has already been written. His thoughts were once again on the scene in the inn, musing them over as he ate and she began to roll over in the gown and robes atop the feather mattress of the bed.

The statement came over and over again, replaying it as her eyes began to open. Particularly when you have nothing to offer that is of worth to me. What would you offer? "Fruit?" He offered the saucer and bowl, amusement evident in his features by the wicked smile.
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Alysia Skye]

He pulls at the weave of his death, Alysia!! She sells her lover short. Lucien is strong...stronger than she will ever know.

The priestess awoke from unconsciousness with Guthorm's bleak condemnation ringing in her ears. It was something else other than guilt that had roused her. It was --

"Fruit?" Veighn sat nearby.

Alysia sat up when she saw the Black Wizard sitting there. He looked relaxed, his feet propped up on an ottoman, and he held a bowl of strawberries and a saucer of cream. Faced with this incongruity, the events of the preceding hours came back to her in a furious rush.

Ye should have accepted mine offer.

Her wounds were mostly healed, leaving behind a ravening thirst, so she judged she'd been unconscious for several hours, perhaps nearly a day. She had obviously been bathed and her flesh tingled from an unknown touch. The shadowsilk shift she'd been garbed in was gone, replaced by a sleeping gown as strange to her as her surroundings. She thought to cover herself, decided against it. Whatever had been seen could not be unseen.

Fiery eyes drifted over those strange surroundings. Intricate carvings traced the pointed arch of each doorway and stained glass window, probably marking ward keypoints. The stark effect of the suite’s stone walls was mitigated by burgundy and gold wall hangings that matched the sleek featherbed beneath her; one wall featured a richly-hued mille-fleur tapestry that seemed to depict a forest hunt at dusk. Candles set upon wrought-iron stands of varying height sent shadowy figures crowding into the corners and the apex of the vaulted ceiling.

Testing invisible bonds, she made a single, futile attempt to twist the shadows to her will, to shift away. Neither of her blades, Angylsblud nor the Katana of the Shar'Vae Qhaith-Na'Vyth responded to her call. The rooms were indeed heavily warded. She grimaced, acknowledging her captivity. The outcome of this war between them had not been written, and the present need for caution outweighed the urge to give reign to her simmering rage.

Realizing some sort of response was expected, Alysia looked at Veighn, temporizing. "Strawberries? No thank you. . . not really to my taste." She offered a slight and sardonic smile to cover her irritation, adding, “The courtesy granted to an enemy is unexpected. I must admit that were the situation slightly different, I would not have held you in such a comely cell.”

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

"Strawberries? No thank you. . . not really to my taste." She offered a slight and sardonic smile to cover her irritation, adding, “The courtesy granted to an enemy is unexpected. I must admit that were the situation slightly different, I would not have held you in such a comely cell.”

Veighn set the saucer of heavily sweetened, spiced cream and the bowl of fruit aside to hover aloft in the air, abandoned. He then turned to the small bowl on the pedestal beside the bed, and dipped his fingers into the rose petal infused water to rinse his fingers of their stickiness. “That’s quite a shame, Priestess, for a worthy enemy is held as a valued opponent, and as such, should be treated with value.”

He shook his head then, affecting a droll look as his boots touched down upon the floor before the ottoman. “However, mine courtesy does not extend to your desire to have ye weapons at ye beck and call.” The wards flared to life at the attempt, and he was well aware of what she sought. Hands thoroughly rinsed and rosy-smelling, he withdrew them from the surface of the water upon which the flower petals floated. He then flicked his fingers at her, flinging water off the ends of his talons in her general vicinity.

“Donnae, for one moment, think that the opulence of ye cage has any bearing on what exactly ye are, prisoner. Ye know full well, by the testing of mine house wards, that ye are in my domain. Law rules here, and that law is mine!” He paused, drying his hands off on one of the folded cloths he’d picked up from the pedestal beside the bowl – a hand towel matching the coloring of the room’s walls, trimmed in cloth-of-gold.

“I’d advise ye, Priestess, and wisely, to hold back any cutting remarks ye have in response to mine statements. Inside these walls, ye are nae “in” Rhydin, nor are ye in Rhilshen, and ye may be held accountable for the words ye sculpt with that pretty pink tongue of yer’s.” He asked of her with an air of nonchalance, affecting the regal mien of an Emperor, eyes wide and sharp, drinking her in as if she were the finest wine, savoring the look of her, captive, and in his power.

“Ye must be famished,” He intoned, gesturing toward the table behind the mobile pedestal, where a decanter of some thick, reddish ‘liqueur’ sat, fluted glasses turned up-ended. “At your leisure, Lady Skye, I donnae wish to have ye respond to mine questions with ye mouth so parched.” He settled back into his seat, his gaze raking over her coldly, his features reserved in aloof expression. “Ye attacked me whilst I was turned. Not the most honorable action I’ve seen. Tell me, Alysia, are ye into making habit of dishonor and betrayal?”
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Alysia Skye]

"Famished? No. I am neither so thirsty nor so crass as to drink before my host, especially after being reprimanded for my courtesy in your domain." With a cool smile, the priestess held his gaze for a while, then turned her eyes toward the decanter. The scent of the contents was a distraction. Heady. Tantalizing. She did not trust that temptation, but obliged, pouring some of the liqueur into each fluted glass. Caution ruling, she did not drink.

A tone of gentle chiding entered Alysia's voice. "Ah... I attacked you whilst you were turned? Not so. Either you malign me deliberately or your recollection is faulty. In fact, my Lord, you struck the first blow. Of that I am very certain." She held up her forearms, allowing the sleeves of the sleeping gown to fall back from her wrists. Raw pink flesh was visible, indicating where the barb-and-spear bladed chains had lodged in her arms and the wounds had healed. She lowered her hands and allowed them to rest, palms up, upon her knees. A ghostly hint of the green fire she'd summoned the preceding night flickered on her fingertips and winked out. "The mere act of summoning balefire behind an enemy's back is not an attack."

Considering his words further, she laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "However, you judge me aright, as I likely would have etched a brand upon your shoulders had you not acted before I! I've already been condemned by my own son for dishonor and betrayal, and since then I have found each little transgression that much easier."

Alysia held the glass close to her lips, breathing in the scent, unthinking and half-aware of the familiarity of that vintage. I know the taste. . . It occurred to her, suddenly, that she was a prisoner in Wraithspire. The curiosity of the location recalled her to her present circumstance. She considered more direct speech and decided against it in the instinct of self-preservation. “As you have not killed me yet, I presume there is something of value you believe I have. Am I to know what that is?”

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

“Malign ye? One would have to have honor to be slandered by such, Alysia. Just now, ye spoke of such and its desecration by ye own hand. Spare me the twits of truth, Alysia, tis a game I know quite intimately.” He observed her as she moved to decant the “liqueur” into the fluted glasses. He took one up as well, watching the contents swirl with blackness trying to escape below the surface of the crimson pool therein.

“Ye commited a treacherous act by summoning this precious balefire. It would be as if I’d held a Shar’Vae blade to ye ethereal self. Tis considered an act of aggression to draw a weapon in the presence of a royal, if not a direct insult to the royal themselves. I would expect you to know such was a breech of etiquette, being an Empress, priestess Skye.” He bequeathed to her a condescending look, affecting the voice of a King chiding one of his Courtiers.

He took his first sip of the wine after swirling it about thrice, as if to aerate the vintage to heighten its flavor. He then sat the base of glass’s stem atop his knee, turning a lazy regard toward the woman as she sat, propped up, on the bed beside him. “Ye sound as though ye are proud of the crop ye’ve sewed and reaped. Betrayal and dishonor against ye son and ye entire kingdom indeed!” Was he aware of this before? He seemed not to act like it, though with the reservation in his features, there was no telling. He affected that cool, calm, collected state of being which was quite uncommon considering who she was speaking too.

“Ye have nae been robbed of ye power, Priestess, though if ye have the urge to test my wards, try to strike me down with your magic.” Sipping his drink again, watching her avidly over the rising of the rim; it was lowered once more. “The light in here is ample, and mine eyes could use the break from such dramatic flare. I’m no commoner’s child to be amazed by the weave of mana changed into flame. Save it for a less intelligent audience, Chryrie, perhaps.” He suggested unflappably.

He ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair, watching as she hesitated partaking of her poured beverage. “What good is knowing ye worth now, Ylith’alialysia, when such shall become evident in its own course of time. Shall I let ye rot in this opulent suite of rooms for eternity, or would ye cherish the chance at freedom once again? Convince me, beyond a reasonable doubt, after your admission to betraying one’s very own blood-kin, what ye would do with me, were we to switch situations?”

“Baaaaanish meee, perhaps?” He drawled, the line of his raven-jet brow rising slowly over his right eye. The scales around his eyes glittered as the red light shown from within those ocular sockets. “Brand me as ye had said previously? Having made amiable acquaintances in some reemerging circles of influence, lately, I’ve learned a thing or two. I was not aware ye cared for the tedium of possessing slaves?” Goading her as he twisted his lips into a smug smirk.

Was this to be her torture? To be questioned endlessly for eternity, allowing her Empire to fall to ruin as the dark gods of her realms moved to smash her world to oblivion? He seemed very comfortable in that chair, lounging there, watching her. “Ye’re a beautiful woman, Alysia.” The compliment came without warning. “Though donnae think me fool enough to discount the power of ye mind. Were ye led to believe I would be susceptible, I know full well ye would try to use such baser temptations against me. That said, what other options of escape and vengeance against me are ye entertaining in that head of yours, mmm?” He waited, calmly, for her response, as though he’d taken her aside from a grand ball, or dinner party, to sit in merry company and converse about the little “pleasantries” of life.
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Alysia Skye]

“Convince you?” Alysia sneered calmly as he goaded her, using her name. “Beyond a doubt? I doubt I could. However, my lord, I will humor you. You may trust that if our situations were reversed, I would see you either compelled by blood or I would find a way to kill you and end the threat you present. I do not care to leave a dangerous enemy alive and unbound. The last traitor of consequence I unearthed now serves me as a revenant in my Bloodguard.”

Little good the Bloodguard did her here, she reflected. She wondered how long it would be before Javan sent them from Rhilshen to look for her, whether his young proteges at the Dark Lake had even become concerned about her absence, whether her son, Alaric-Dthrendtalen, had any idea of her present situation. She thought not. “And it was not betrayal of my own blood-kin for which my son condemned me. He judged me in his then-capacity as Emperor, and the penalty for betrayal of blood-kin is death – not exile,” she muttered with a dour, self-mocking smirk. “Exile is reserved for those who betray their consorts.”

The priestess smiled again. This expression did not reach her eyes, which continued to smolder fiery, angry crimson. “I must admit I have only twice before been in situations where I was required to contemplate a return to freedom. Then, my captivity was nowhere near as, hm, pleasant as this.” Alysia gestured to the opulent surroundings, including the urbane Dark Lord in that gesture. Unbidden came a memory of that cell in the Courts of Pain, the smell of dank iron and hellfire, the burning rune-scars being etched into . . . She shuddered, thinking, Never again. . . I would die first.

“It is unfortunate, my lord, that you know me well enough to anticipate me,” she temporized. A note of forced levity colored her contralto. “Not to mention that you possess my truename. . . a particularly thorny complication, that! The two combine to severely limit my options for escape, and I expect I would be moldering here unto the ages, at least until you tired of my shrewish tongue and recalcitrant demeanor. Yet, there is a silver lining to that cloud; such would leave me plenty of time to take my vengeance upon you.”

Elfin features impassive and unreadable, Alysia saluted him with the fluted wine glass and took a long draught of the ostensible liqueur.

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

“Convince you?” She sneered. “Beyond a doubt? I doubt I could. However, my lord, I will humor you. You may trust that if our situations were reversed, I would see you either compelled by blood or I would find a way to kill you and end the threat you present. I do not care to leave a dangerous enemy alive and unbound. The last trater of consequence I unearthed now serves me as a revenant in my bloodguard.” She grew quite after this, half-listening, half reflecting on her own thoughts.

“Very good, I had precisely that in mind. Finding a way to compel ye is more suitable to mine needs. I’m not beyond killing ye for the betrayal, though such would be an indefinite waste. The mention of the revenant is amusing.” He observed her for a few passing moments, in silence. His gaze slowly traced the lines of her gown and house robe, her physique beneath, an appraisal that was both brazen and clinical. He sighed as though tired, irritated perhaps, due to the flash of shadow lurking within the fires of his eyes. Alysia spoke further of her feelings on the matters previously spoken about, setting the facts straight for her captor.

“And it was not betrayal of my own blood-kin for which my son condemned me. He judged me in his then-capacity as Emperor, and the penalty for betrayal of blood-kin is death – not exile.” Apparently, the resurgence of the memory was not particularly a lovely thing to reflect upon, and he took notice of this in her tone. “Exile is reserved for those who betray their consorts."

She feigned a charming smile, though the look in her gaze held poisoned daggers for him in the depths of her eyes. “I must admit, I have only twice before been…. “ The voice trialed off as his mind went to other things. He was still aware, distantly, of what she spoke. He’d glean the important words and phrases like required to contemplate a return to freedom, as well as It is unfortunate…, know me well enough, and anticipate.

His smirk was cynical, as if not well aware her compliments were more back-handed in nature than uplifting. The words, nowhere near as pleasant as this, brought him to the present with a minor scowl of irritation again. Her goblet remained hovering below her lips, yet she’d not partaken of it. He displayed, outwardly, a rather bored expression. It was as though he wanted her to hurry her little story along so she could refresh her palate with the substance of the glass. He tipped his own goblet back in a press to his lips, as if demonstrating – subtly and suggestively – that she cease talking soon and indulge her appetite so he didn’t have to force it down her throat. His regard of her turned suddenly cold.
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

“…not to mention that you possess my truename… a particularly thorny complication, that! The two combine severely to limit my options for escape, and I expect I would be moldering here unto the ages, at least until you tired of my shrewish tongue and recalcitrant demeanor. Yet, there is a silver lining to that cloud; such would leave me plenty of time to take my vengeance upon you.” Finally, she was finished. The saluting of him told him so, though mocking and insulting as it was to witness. Perhaps he’d consider this cause enough to shatter every bone in her dainty little hand for that little display of pomp. Though, he refrained, for finally she was imbibing the greatest vintage of all vintages… a toast to his own victory.

“Surely, some will miss ye after a few days time. Perhaps ye have a few champions whom would seek mine head, per se? I suppose I shall have to wait and see, hmmm?” He rose, fluidly, from his seat beside her bed, taking a step toward her and the bed itself. “It seems ye are accustomed to making others wait until it strikes ye whim to tend to their attentions, desires, wants, and inquiries. Yet, I take it ye are nae accustomed to the waiting on others.” Considering her, he shook his head, running his claws against the silk-weave cloth she was laying on.

“All this talk of consorts, and exiles does allude to a rather interesting line of thoughts, Alysia.” His knee pressed to the surface of her bed, and he leaned forward, hovering over her as his arm came to her left side, a column of cloth-covered flesh, bone, muscle and sinew barring a roll-away escape. “Tis almost as though ye’re making a proposition to mine subconscious mind.” He edged closer to her face as she pulled the goblet away – perhaps his sudden nearness had caught her off guard, or put her back on it, he cared little at this point. He flashed her a grin, affecting the look of one who might be quite obtuse, and perhaps he could be misconstrued as such had she just met him. By this, he mocked her, his tones scathing now. “As if, ye are inviting me to be betrayed, betrayed I have been, Alysia. The real question is, are ye baiting me to accept a position of one of ye consorts?”

He slipped off the side of the bed as her mouth moved to respond, and he held his hand up in a silencing gesture, his back turned to her as he withdrew to a stand beside the bed again. “Donnae answer the rhetoric. There is esoteric meaning hidden within. Perhaps, it will give ye something to keep ye mind busy for awhile.” He cast a cruel smile over his shoulder, granting her a profile view of his features as he made his way toward the outer crenellated walk beyond the second exit to her castle-prison suites.

“Ye will be granted leave to freely partake of this particular vintage of wine, however, since ye shrewish tongue and wayward disposition has nae changed for the better, I shall leave ye alone – without any companion whatsoever – save for ye own thoughts. Ye may stew in them, and brood, until I wish return...” murmuring. "If I even decide to return to ye at all. Perhaps I'll do as ye previously suggested, and let ye waste away into lethargy to moulder there on that bed for eternity."

Turning, he wove a rapid series of semantic gestures together, creating an offensive flare of light that shot in a line toward the water-clock and statuette in the corner of the room, shattering it into shards of sand, stone dust, and a cloud of steam instantaneously. Meanwhile, the windows of the room blackened, shutting out the light threatening to pierce the room’s interior. “Ye worst enemy cannot harm ye as much as ye own unguarded thoughts, Alysia. Ye will know the price of power very intimately, soon, darling, and with it... the laws of pain.” The door shut behind him, and utter silence fell over the dark, candle-lit interior of her apartments. All sense of time began to dissolve as wards flared, even the sense of direction, all saving up and down. She was trapped, alone, inside her cell and the nightmare prison of her own mind.
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Lord Veighn Yhaull]

The passage of time is not so miniscule when you are left alone in the dark with no sense of when the creeping doom hanging in wait to swoop down and end her existence would come. Moments stretched out into hours. Hours soon stretched and became whole days. Days stretched on into weeks. The cruelties started immediately. He had made it a point to feed her at his convenience, not her own. Each fresh decanter was sent to her suite of apartments a few hours later than the one before it each day.

A crafty individual uses any means they have at their disposal when left to their own devices and telling the passage of time was one of those often sought privileges her captor had deprived of her. Each time the delivery was later, and each time she would find the ravenous thirst growing more and more vicious as her metabolism started to change.

The pain of being devoured slowly from within seemed to grow more acute with each passing moment of loneliness. Though, she was not truly lonely, was she? Oh, no. She had those nagging thoughts of hers. Those ‘voices’ in her head that liked to tell her all sorts of interesting things were probably running her through a series of horrible scenarios as her condition worsened more and more.

Unconsciousness came in waves. At times, it was a state of rest interrupting the long periods of endless pacing, waiting to be fed by the ‘unseen servant’ spell he’d been taunting her with during her incarceration. At other times, it came on rapidly, for the changes subtly occurring within her body, quintessence, and psyche were becoming more and more brutal the longer she wasted away in Veighn’s ‘care’. Three days ago, or was it? Approximately three days after seeing the Dark Lord, to her reckoning, a massive shadow poised itself above the archway that led directly into the castle. Thick webbing, the size of steel rods, soon appeared in an artful design a few hours later. Her hearing outside the room was heavily muted, though, and whatever being, giant spider or no, that lurked beyond was not in the business of allowing itself to be seen.

More time passed, perhaps a week and still the feedings came late and still the presence outside in the corridor did not announce itself to her. The pain inside her was growing more and more intense, and her mind was being taxed by a mixture of hot and cold waves that were akin to migraines, fevers, and chills. Had he cursed her? Had he afflicted her with some sort of magical or supernatural disease she was not yet aware of? How? When? Why? Questions answered only spawned a litter of more questions asked. Yet alone, she was unable to escape them. Even when she was resting, it was not a fitful sleep. Her dreams were plagued with things, people from her past, places unfamiliar, and Him. He always seemed to be somewhere, lurking, watching from behind some secret veil. Soon, she’d be her own tormentor, and it seemed he was willing to allow her this knowledge, and wait her out until such a thing came to be.

Over and over again, whilst bathing in the small sunken pool screened away from the main room of her bedchamber, the phrase came to the forefront of her mind, echoed from some darkness beyond the edge of her subconscious unbidden and unwanted. Ye worst enemy cannot harm ye as much as ye own unguarded thoughts, Alysia. Ye will know the price of power very intimately, soon, darling, and with it... the laws of pain. Then a gut-wrenching tug began to twist and pull at her core from deep within her body behind the lower regions of her abdomen. The most peculiar thing happened next. The water of her steaming bath started to affect a scarlet tint originating from somewhere beneath where she was currently seated on the stone bench within.
_________________
"...Lay quiet and still, fight naught the longed-for happiness herein;
Learn truth in death, that even skulls of skeletons mayst have their grins."

[Alysia Skye]

Alysia slowly paced the stone confines of her cell, brooding, trailing her hand against a wall to measure the dimensions of this suite that had become her solitary, silent world. The ghost-whisperings in her mind hand stilled without warning, leaving her only the interminable company of her own paranoid doubts and fears. She had thought to measure the passage of time with her heartbeat or with the eternal tides of vampiric thirst, but discovered both were now erratic, unreliable. The windows were blacked out and admitted no light, and the candles provided were replaced at irregular intervals. Thus, she had no idea how long she had been confined here. Weeks? Months?

The priestess wondered if Veighn had made good on his threat. . . Perhaps I'll do as ye previously suggested, and let ye waste away into lethargy to moulder there on that bed for eternity.

At that, she felt a flash of rage. For a fleeting moment, she extended silvery talons, considering the books shelved in the adjacent library. Some of the texts were rare, and all of them were valuable. She entertained the idea of petulantly shredding each of the books shelved in the study. Or burning them. Chaos-fire flickered white at her fingertips, and the dampening energy of the wards, now familiar to her, tingled against her hands and bare feet. Surely Veighn would come to investigate, to berate her for destroying his possessions – and when he did, she would tear his throat out, take his power for her own, and kill him.

Or not. Her head started to ache again, as it had so times since she'd found herself here. A sick, cold sweat sprung out on the burning flesh of her arms. She knew she had become generally lethargic and disoriented, prone to sleeping for what seemed days at a time, even suddenly falling unconscious. Invariably, she awoke from her faints starving, wracked with pain. Her metabolism was being altered, inexplicably. Of that, she was sure.

She wondered if he had chosen to poison her, in mocking “proof” of his coward's ways.

Alysia looked angrily at the decanter of blood-red spirits, the single glass standing empty next to it. The sight alone prompted desperate blood-hunger, a near killing frenzy that left her weak and trembling instead of standing with single-minded strength and acuity. She refilled the glass and drank, breathing slowly. It could be poison, she acknowledged. Yet even poison might be a favor now, if it led to death.

“A favor,” she rasped in a low voice hoarse from disuse. Alysia laughed bitterly, bleakly. Better to die at my own hands. . . she could approximate the ritual closely enough, even here. Yet to sacrifice her immortality and embrace death would allow her no chance at vengeance.

She was furious with herself for allowing her temper to reign and with Veighn for setting her up. How long had he been planning this, she wondered. Had she become so predictable? So many figures had been wielded as pawns. . . and she hadn't even seen it happening! She should have known, should have voiced some non-committal response to the de Auster's plaint, then turned and left to tell Chryrie to back off. Guile and sly manipulation had easily won over blunt honesty and pride.

The priestess felt a slow admiration for Veighn's skill, verging on attraction. The realization quickly filled her with loathing.

Her attention turned to the bath, filled with steaming water, lightly scented with attar of roses. She looked down at the water and fought the desire to bathe, to scrub her alabaster skin clean of some unseen taint. She wavered for a moment, then shed her gown and stepped into the bath.

[Alysia Skye]

The heat of the water was soothing, encouraging a lassitude that pervaded her limbs and pronounced her fatigue. Alysia twisted her hair into a long, silvery braid and listlessly regarded the dim glow of a low, guttering candle – it struck her as too bright, the scent of beeswax too strong, almost nauseating. She sank back to rest her aching head on the tiled rim of the bathing pool, contemplating.

Her link with her gods and her bloodline was blocked, and the souls normally crowding her psyche were quiescent, offering neither counsel nor condemnation. After some time, she had sensed, as if from a distance, the mind-voice of Alazais screeching that she could not bear the touch of Law, and shortly after that she had heard the sound of mirrors shattering. Llehlnia's voice, thick with a Brikarthan accent, had icily exhorted her to kill herself and pronounce a blood curse upon Veighn and all who aided him. Alysia had fallen into a stupor, and since then. . . silence.

That silence was accompanied by a pervasive sense of dread and doubt. They will be glad that I have vanished, no longer to plague them with arrogance and weakness, my unreasonable demands, she thought. How long have I been here? How long will it take for the memory of me to fade in their minds, supplanted by that which is near and real and warm? The priestess found no answers to the endless litany of questions and doubts and uncertainties that plagued her.

She was exhausted beyond nearly any limit she'd tested before. In this foreign place, her sleep had not been restful, clouded with a red haze of agony. When she did sleep, she was troubled by bizarre dreams and beset by memories. In one dream, she faced Julian – or was it Lucien -- and tormented him for his weakness and affection. In another, Daemonshi chided her, ...tell me this, Alysia...what do you ask from me?...an apology?...if so, I give it...I give fully, with all things being my fault...I know you tried, but...I should never have left one so young...with such a load... In a phantom reverie, she looked at an elegant and poised copper-haired woman who stood under a pall of darkness, facing the sunrise, looking over the rose-hedged gardens and a cobbled highway below. She felt certain that strange woman would have sea-green eyes, that she answered to the name of Rose. Stare not for long into the dark, for sometimes the dark stares back, and in doing so, it stares into you.

Then there came a nightmare filled with gloom and storm. She felt her captor's attention upon her, and kept looking over her shoulder as she traversed a rain-slick street. If I look again, no one will be there, she thought. Is it my own madness that follows me? Is this truth or dream? It made her want to laugh, hysterically. Or weep. That sense of being watched by her captor remained with her even as she clung to dreams in which there was no escape. With her grip on sanity waning, Alysia considered that those she cared for had perhaps only ever been dreams, figments of fantasy; that the truth was she had been a captive in this prison for the entirety of her existence.

A sudden, sharp, twisting cramp originating near her navel brought to alertness. Another wave of pain surged across her abdomen. She felt a rush of heat, foreign to the steaming water surrounding her, and saw the impossibility of blood inking that water. She gasped in pain and disbelief, stammering, thoughts racing. In frustration, she attempted to banish the bewildered anxiety, the sense of utter violation which threatened to overwhelm her. What is happening. . .? What has been done to me?! Why is this being done to me?

[Alysia Skye]

Calm down, Alysia. You know better than this.

She knew that voice, and she trusted its gentle chiding. She took one slow breath and exhaled. Another. And another. Focusing. Around her, the water grew cold. As fear fled, an icy sense of rage suffused her thoughts, dimming despair, pain and fatigue. Enough! I will not be a captive of my own thoughts. Alysia got to her feet, dripping water and blood. She toweled herself off with an expression of distaste, dismissing the blood as a somatic response to something intangible and illusory.

Pervaded by cold serenity, she still felt that remote sense of violation - and something about her had surely changed. It was something subtle, almost akin to the days she’d forced the Primal Chaos beneath Rhilshen into a pattern of Order. Those changes steeled her to her purpose. She was unsure whether the taint originated from Veighn or that damned Tiefling witch of his, but either way, she intended to repay that insult in kind, one way or another, when the time came. She could wait for that time.

'Tell me, Alysia, are ye into making habit of dishonor and betrayal. . .?'

Alysia replayed the encounter in her mind as she perused the wardrobe provided, automatically discarding one after the other. Robes of gold-stamped velvet. Sleek, jewelled gowns. Gauzy shifts of spidersilk. Frocks, as the late Baroness of Mynw would have disparagingly categorized them. All more suitable for idle study or elegant adornment than practical endeavors. She ultimately chose a gown in red silk so dark it verged on black, for the mere reason that the lustrous play of light and shadow upon the fabric attracted her eye.

'Betrayed I have been, Alysia. . .'

She scowled, considering the matter at hand. The Priestess stepped into a pair of embroidered slippers - ornamental and completely useless. Why the emphasis on betrayal. . . what treachery had there really been? In truth, there had been no alliance between her and Veighn, only her own offer of assistance to the Black Wizard, made in exchange for Kitty and Viki’s safety. Yet bound by no law, words or blood, Veighn had found it easy to renege on his agreement and had once again begun to haunt The Seer.

Then Lucien, so very noble and self-sacrificing, had made a similar offer to spare Viki, in essence baring his own throat to the Wizard’s blade - and Veighn had accepted, offering to Alysia honeyed words of reassurance. 'He is your jewel, and a treasure trusted to an ally shall be marked a great show of faith. Ye charge is mine own, Priestess. . . Any aggressors against his well-being will have to answer to me.'

A show of faith, indeed. Alysia sneered in disgust. How my faith was rewarded. She rather thought that Veighn had excluded himself from that vow, for surely Lucien’s sanity and well-being had been sorely tried by the Black Wizard's aggressions like no other. The informal alliance had soured from there, with each successive provocation culminating in the inevitable result of a wizard’s war.

Yet not one of her kin had been bound by their agreement, so his haughty ire at Chryrie was ill-placed. And if Veighn had sniffed out treachery, it was none but his own, twice over.

So, betrayal it was.

Alysia smiled, buoyed by her anger. She held an image in her mind, a shadowy sphere of mana condensed into something tangible and potentially terrible, now an impressive bauble held securely in her coffers. If I thought he was in danger. . . there are things in my possession that I might destroy. Upon a whim. Do be careful, Lord Veighn. There are oaths that I hold dearer than my promise to provide assistance to you. Thus, whatever events the future held, he had been warned.

Veighn had said, 'I’m not beyond killing ye for the betrayal . . .' She thought for a moment to return that favor, and almost immediately found the thought of killing Veighn abhorrent. That realization crystalized some of her suspicions. The Priestess cursed and picked up the decanter of blood-spirits and flung it at the door to her suite. As it shattered, she shouted, “Malvhista! Fetch your Master, else I will flay you where you stand guard and make a puppet from your skin!”

[Alysia Skye]

It was perhaps fifteen minutes before she heard movement outside her door, the one leading to the outside. There had been placed some sort of sentry outside, though nothing but a strange presence was felt nearest that exit. The interior exit was guarded by webbing, it seemed, and the strands of the webbing were becoming thicker, and were extremely sticky. This is where the sound came some thirty minutes after the call had gone out. A pair of footsteps proceeded beyond a heavier set, a female voice whispering hurridly behind the long shadow approaching the doorway that lead into the bed chambers themselves from the inside. The door opened to reveal his presence, and the shattered decanter at his feet. Malvhista lurked somewhere behind him. “Ye wished to see me, Alysia?”

"That I did. Did I interrupt your play-time?"� She asked in a dulcet contralto, ignoring the lurking Tiefling. "Perhaps I merely wished to offer my gratitude to my host."� Alysia seemed calm, revealing none of the panic that had overcome her earlier. A sweeping gesture captured the small suite. "For the, ah, congenial surroundings and the so carefully and cleverly woven wards of shade and Law. You have given me the chance to enjoy silence, and the undisturbed opportunity to reflect, of course."�

“Ye seemed disdainful of mine company,” He stated simply, his hands extending outward in a faux gesture of peace, palms turned upward. He stood beyond the threshold of the doorway, where the wards were heavily barring her escape into the hall. “I see ye donnae favor the wine?” He gestured, pointing to the floor at his feet with the black talon of his index finger, then added very softly, “or is this an accident?”

Alysia glanced at the pieces of broken glass that had once made up a decanter and kicked a large fragment toward him in disgust. Her eyes burned crimson, narrowed with a hint of controlled pain, and careful anger was apparent in her tone. "What you chose to do to me . . ."� She stopped, shook her head dismissively. "How curiously predictable you are, thinking to compel what might have been offered in the face of honesty. Your interests would have been better served with my willing cooperation." After a moment, she added, "I wonder if you even know what you wrought."� She looked toward a darkened mirror and the reflection captured there: tall and pale, silver-gilt hair braided sleekly over her shoulder, almond-shaped eyes glittering ash-gray. In the shadows, her jaw seemed narrower, her cheekbones more prominent, the sensuous cast of her countenance refined into something more ethereal.

“I've created an Angel of Death, of course.” He said silkily as he stepped foot into the room. He hiked his robes as he stepped over the pool of blood and wine she'd been surviving on for three weeks now, if not longer. It was hard to tell by her reckoning, her modes of telling time had been dispensed with long ago. “Are ye enjoying the solitude, Priestess? Or, shall I no longer refer to ye as such.” He dropped the hem of his robes and advanced upon her, each step a fractional quickening of pace before he was face to face with her, an inch between them. His clawed hand moved to lightly press itself to the side of her cheek in some perverse parody of a loving caress. “Ye have long yearned for what I have given you.” Without touching her skin, he moved his hand away from her face, and pressed it between them, seeking the flat of her abdomen. “Tell me, how long...”

“Ahhh..." She breathed. "I would say that your judgment is flawless, but I'd be lying. I'm not as comfortable with lies and treachery as you. Thus I must disagree... I will be a Priestess until the gods I serve die. Your wards are temporary and will not outlive those gods, Veighn." She smiled, just a little, bringing fangs into prominence. "It is no secret that I have ever yearned for power. Survival is impossible without it."

He tilted his head, brushing the corner of her mouth with a scathing of his lower incisors as he whispered into her ear. He made sure she felt the tracery of tiny scales along the line of his jaw against her flesh as he spoke. “Ye think ye will outlive me, Alysia of Clan Skye? Do not pander with me, woman. Ye have refused mine power for a seeming age. Ye have danced around me like the little silvan creature ye pretend at being. Tis a lovely guise, I must admit.” An ominous whisper of a chuckle echoed from his lips, a chorus of three voices spoke out. “Does ye blood burn?”

With low laughter, she turned, murmuring. "My blood was fired long before you served me tainted.... drink. Perhaps now it has chilled to slush." She stepped back, chin up-tilted, eyes flashing gray. "I rather think you seek to drive me mad with solitude. I will allow this - you nearly succeeded."� She held up thumb and index finger, smiling to show prominent fangs. "Nearly. So I must ask --- why? What the Hell is it you want from me?"� She sneered at him. "I will not be your pet. Nor your puppet. Nor your pawn."�

“Fire and Ice.” He mused this over as he strode forward, pressing his form against her own. She was tall, very tall for a female of the elf race. Perhaps it was an older race she chose to affect. Almost Eladrin, in appearance than elven. Yes, he would gauge it that. A cruel smile formed his lips. He pressed the advantage of height, a mere couple inches, over her as he advanced. “Ye speak as though ye have a choice, Ylith. I find this curious.” He stared down his nose at her, crowding her back toward the obstacle of the high-back between her back and the edge of the bed, the ottoman before it just another thing to hamper undisturbed progress. “Ye will be what I wish ye to be, my dear. That is the way of things. Look around ye!” He gestured to the carmine-hue of the walls, the dark tapestries and paintings, the hanging curtains around the top of gothic pillars with faces chiseled into the flawless black marble. “This is nae Dark Lake. This is nae, Rhilshen. Ye are in mine domain.”

"That may be,"Alysia retorted coldly. "Yet how long do you think you have before Chryrie sends my Bloodguard from Rhilshen to tear down your wards and bring Hell to your doors? Do you wish to fight a war upon two fronts?"�