The southern Arc-en-Lume watchtower. One of the capitalâs many holding cells laid here, beneath the floors upon floors of barracks. Here, under the dim, crackling torchlights and the incessant rattle of chains and shackles, the cityâs many thieves, thugs, and other miscreants remained. Some awaited trial. Others hoped for bail or pardon. All, however, longed for freedom. Freedom from the rusted, blood-scented chains. From the stale, dusty air. From the possibility of a worse fate within the Sirenâs Epitaph, Beaucourtâs most fortified prison, secluded deep within the western mountain range.
The sound of footsteps drew IzâHanaâs ears. The bright yellow glow of a lantern peered down the spiral staircase just across his cell. His keen huntsmanâs senses recognised these sounds. The familiar, metallic clink and clank of the guardsâ steel sabatons, followed by the pitter-patter of footsteps, one with shorter, slower strides than the other.
The faceless armet of one guard looked straight at IzâHana. âHey, Darkie. Weâve got a friend for ya.â The other guard cackled and dragged the bound form of a drow woman down the stairs, across the cobblestone floor, and in front of IzâHanaâs cell. The first guard unlocked the door, and the second tossed the woman inside.
Thud!
Her lanky body rolled over the dust thrice over. The guards shut the door, and began to move along with their second prisoner - a stout dwarf, dressed in tattered rags, with beard and eyes as black as ink. âGuards, wait!â He shouted. The guards humoured him. The dwarf shuffled towards the drow woman, his arms bound behind his back and secured by the second guard. âDonât celebrate just yet,â he spoke, his voice a calm, low warning. âThe Sacred Flame are lookinâ through my room in the Jackalope this very moment. Itâs only a matter of time.â
She spat through the bars, spraying it through her teeth and over his face like a snake spitting venom. âInbau aturr ulu lâmaerch, gorraâh,â she hissed, unable to hold back the laugh in her voice.
Hilgur bared his wide, block-like teeth, his face contorted with layers of wrinkles set by rage. âNOBODY CAN STOP MY EXPEDITION!â âAlright, thatâs enough,â The first guard decided, and dragged a screaming, squirming, incensed Hilgur away, deeper into the dungeons.
A flash of white darted across her dark face. As she turned around, she disposed of her grin, flicking her gaze over to the shadow in the corner. They were hers, with ashen skin and pale eyes more fitting of their kind. A short rolling of her tongue left her lips instinctively, ending on an inflection. A question. Then she frowned, remembering something, and tossed her head without waiting for an answer, slinking towards the other corner.
Zoltian drow. They werenât hers.