Katerin was content with her quiet life of studying the arcane, and wanted for nothing in her life. She had friends, family, and plenty to do.
But life has a way of changing people--a way of pushing them to do things far outside their comfort and ex...
Arnet walked the halls of the spire, away from the line of cells that held all his pets. A smaller and smaller number it seemed, lately—amusing how terribly the sentient races handled pain. The girl was weak, her sight spell barely strong enough to find its target, even after he had so graciously allowed it. But he could never refuse an opportunity to cause pain—it was his purpose, after all, and the girl's mother was surely a sight to cause pain, now.
The woman was incredibly defiant, though. No matter the torture, she said nothing. She never even screamed, no matter how much hatred and pain burned in her eyes. She was strong—unlike her daughter, but he knew he would succeed at breaking her, because after all was said and done, he would have all the time in the world.
He wound his way to the Spire's small library, a collection he had been perfecting for years. Every banned and secret tome on necromancy and blood magic that he could find graced its shelves, forbidden pieces of history and magic that most never dared imagine. "The girl finally got a glimpse of her mother, though I don't think she liked what she saw." His tone was almost singsong as he sat across from Byron at a small but well-made table.
Byron arched one eyebrow at him. "I thought magic like that couldn't affect this place, Arnet."
"Not unless I allow it." He grinned. "It's fun to break the rules, sometimes."
Byron sighed. "I'll begin soon... how strong is her magic?"
Arnet snorted. "She could barely control that simple spell. She's a novice, on all counts."
Byron grimaced. "The Bloodstone did excellently." He spun a ruby the size of his fist on the table, and a small golden glint shone from within it. "We won't need much more than Gregorio to finish this."
"I know," Arnet said, watching the gem spin. "I will prepare our home for visitors, although I know you don't wish to take anymore... unnecessary risks." He said the last words in an almost mocking tone.
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Katerin found herself sitting at a table, worn and scratched. She was looking at her hands. Only, they were not hers. Manacles wrapped the wrists of strong, masculine, callused hands. Dirt caked the fingernails, and hair covered the considerably muscular and suntanned arms. She looked around the room and found it empty, save for the table and one other chair.
Bright light filtered through the dirty windows of the building. Her foot was tapping nervously on the floor and she could not make it stop.
The door opened and an almost-familiar man stepped into the room. She tried to flee, push herself away from the table and run. Run anywhere she could, and find a place to hide. But she had no control over this body, it seemed. Byron wore pristine Sahn-Raidar armor. There was far less gray in his hair, far fewer wrinkles, and his eyes—they were not the cold, hollow things she had seen before.
He sat across from her and smiled warmly, "It is so kind of you to finally join us," he said, pulling a cloth pack from one shoulder and dumping it to the floor. Bits of cheese, dried bread and meat fell onto the floor, and more than one small sack of coins. A length of rope and a leather-wrapped tool pouch fell free as well. "Getting caught over some silvers and a few scraps of bread?" He tsked.
