Chapter 5

Allegiance

When Yalene awoke, she thought she had just had the strangest dream: She had dreamt that she had awoken in the forest and had gotten lost, turning always in another direction than she wanted to. The dream had culminated into her leaving the forest on paths unknown, only to run into the next patrol, promptly being accused of witchcraft and thrown into a dungeon.

As she opened her eyes, she realized that this was not the dream, nor had the nightmare beforehand, the one of her fleeing the scene of a terrible battle wearing the skin of a beautiful monster. Her eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness of her damp cell, the only light of torches in the hallway crawling up at the edge of the bars. Yalene shivered in the cold, propping herself up sluggishly, feeling as exhausted as if she had run miles and miles. Her lips felt dry and cracked, and her throat felt like she had swallowed fine desert sand leaving scratch marks in her body. There was no way for her to determine if it was day or night, and since the prison warden didn't think a Dark Elf should be fed, she felt weaker and weaker, until she had stopped moving at all, having curled up in the corner of her cell that was still loosely covered with a little straw had been thrown into her cell.

Sometimes, the prison warden, a coarse man with a cruel smile, tried to taunt her by making a show of the other bowls he left for the prisoners in other cells, only to pointedly leave her out. But in truth, Yalene thought that he was afraid. He was too afraid to go near her cell or even open the door ever so slightly to bring her food, and only if he feared that she could die of thirst, he put a cup full of snow at her bars and hurried away, as if he was afraid that even having touched the cup would have given her an opening to harm him with curse or claw. She had also seen the hate reflected on his dimly-lit face; still he didn't dare to approach her or do more than shout a few obscenities at her from a safe distance.

Yalene had come to know hunger pangs and thirst in the past, but never like this. In long winters after bad harvests, she had tightened her belt and fasted, in summers with dried rivers and creeks, she had found a way and simply ventured deeper into the forest just like anybody else. But here, she could do nothing but endure. The thirst sometimes conjured up pleasant images of friends lost and left talking to her about things she didn't understand, but enjoyed nonetheless. The hunger twisted inside her like a draining, hurtful and poisonous snake leeching all strength out of her. Sometimes, she felt too weak to lift her head, and felt her spirits only return when a cup of snow appeared at her bars. She had always said the words that water was life, but she had never felt this truth so much as when the sweet feeling of melting snow touched her tongue and soothed her.

The moment she had lost her veil either in the forest or during the sacking of Hochfels, she should have known that the moment would come. When she had awoken in the soothing embrace of the spirit tree, she had tried to make her way through the Laurelorn Forest, but by some strange coincidence, hadn't been able to find her way through it. Faster than she should have, she had heard waves slapping against the shores and had seen the treeline in the distance. Given the position, she had only been able to deduce that she had reached the other side of the forest, entering a whole other province. For some reason, she had passed the river Schaukel, borders between Westerland and Nordland and a sizable distance within the Laurelorn Forest including a coastal area that was known goblin territory without remembering how she could have found her way there. In fact, she still didn't know. She only knew that she had been politely shown the door by this enchanted forest and taken the hint, hiding her features with the hood of her cloak. She had reached the road to Aarnau, one of the larger towns at the coast of Westerland, where she had hoped to find shelter, transportation and lunch in no particular order. First, she had encountered a Westerland patrol on the road in their distinct black and white uniform. But before she could inform them of marauding Dark Elves, which in hindsight, might not have been the brightest idea, she had been caught. Then, things had gone south very fast, somebody crying something about her being a cultist, then stuffing her into a cart to a destination unknown and then into this dungeon before she had even time to think. There had been no trial, not even something more than the superstitious outcry at the sight of her elven ears and the paleness of her skin.

At first, she hadn't been able to decide if the pain of ravenous hunger and thirst was worse than the throbbing pain at the back of her right hand, where she had received the brand of a cultist. Branding was not done often in the Empire, since justice was swift and in severe cases mostly final. But in past times, prisoners used for forced labour or galley prisoners had been branded with a number on their wrist. In some provinces, like Westerland, they still used this system for prisoners sentenced to death by hard labour or otherwise, who were branded with the coat-of-arms of the particular nobleman in whose name the judging was done either on the back of the hand or forehead. So Yalene counted herself lucky that it was only her hand that had been mutilated. The burning sensation had receded after what felt like an excruciating eternity, although she still felt heat and sharp pain on her skin. Up to this point, she had not even been able to inspect her hand for the lack of light. In her weakened state, she also hadn't been able or even willing to use what little magic she knew, either for distraction or lighting purposes. What good would it do her, either way? Even if she could find a way out of this prison, she would never be able to interact with humans again without this mark on her hand damning her to the gallows or the next pyre.

In the darkness of her cell, when she had slipped in and out of consciousness, dark thoughts had visited her like unwelcome and persistent relatives, clawing their way into her skull until she couldn't ignore them anymore. Thoughts about loss and been swirling around, thoughts about guilt of surviving when nobody else did, even more guilt about her fleeing the scene instead of doing anything to help when Hochfels was sacked. But most of all, she sincerely questioned why she was still alive. Elves were damned, their souls mere morsels for the Dark Prince … had she condemned herself to this fate when she foolishly did not follow Leevke's example? She had allowed herself to be sacrificed, she had not properly read the omens, she had not taken precautions when she could have done so.

Even now, she felt entirely useless and hopeless. That she wasn't fed made her miserable, which made her question why she was so greedy that she only thought of food and drink like an animal, and with some bitter amusement, noted that at least with nothing in her belly, she didn't produce any waste worth noting. She had been denounced as a chaos worshipper for her appearance only, for being a Dark Elf. Wasn't this true? Perhaps there had been Chaos involved in her creation, so the sentence fit in a way.

Her thoughts were about to turn darker and darker turns for the hundredth time in what seemed like an eternity of solitude, when she heard steps in the corridor outside. That in itself was not notable, nor was the fact that these steps stopped close to her bars. Every now and then, the prison wardens gathered during what Yalene presumed was their shift changeover to stand and gawk at her for a few seconds, but always backed off quickly. In the beginning, she had attempted to talk to them, but had never gotten a response that would have qualified as a complete sentence. Sometimes, it had been laughter, sometimes frightened and superstitious mumbling. But they had never talked to her specifically, just looked at her as if she were some sort of exotic animal.

Today, it was different. The lock at her prison door was opened, and she saw the silhouettes of two or three people, both cloaked and hooded. The light of the lantern they had been taking with them blinded her, so she couldn't see their faces, or anything at all. Lifting her hand to shield her eyes seemed too much of an effort, so she merely turned her head away and closed her eyes. But her cell had been opened, a thought that should have concerned her more, but all she felt was numbness. They had finally come to make her face judgement at last, it seemed.

"So that's her.", one of the hooded men said. He possessed a pleasant, soothing voice that complimented the stilted quality of his speech patterns so typical for elven speakers of Reikspiel. A moment later, she heard him kneeling close to her, could feel the tips of his gloved fingers as he carefully touched her face, guiding her into the light of the lantern and forcing Yalene to blink. The elven man made a sound that was in shouting distance of a surprised gasp. "Wait a minute …"

"Yes, this is indeed a Dark Elf. The patrols caught her after she had set a barn on fire. The farmer died in the blaze, poor man. No doubt a sacrifice to her Chaos Gods …", the other man replied, clearly speaking through a handkerchief held against his mouth. His accent was flat, as it was common for Westerlanders, his nasal cadence making it appear almost comically posh and polished. That there had been a fire before she had been caught was news to Yalene, but it did explain why the guards had been overly zealous with their hunt. If they or any Sigmarites among them had found any trace of the Ruinous Powers in the barn or the farm, even a wayward talisman, any strange circumstance like the sudden appearance of an elf would be suspicious to them. She had been unfortunate, as simple as it sounded.

"If she has really done that, why wasn't she strong enough to escape this prison?", the elf asked in a saccharine and at the same time mocking tone, taking the long pause that followed as answer enough. "Give me the plate. This was good thinking on my part, don't you think? She looks half-dead. Some dangerous Chaos worshipper you have there."

While her eyes were still not adjusted to the brightness of a single lantern and therefore, she couldn't see his face, Yalene was immensely thankful to this man and was at the same time ashamed to admit it. This was common decency from an elf, not a human, to at least not assume that she was responsible for all the evils in the world. That feeling intensified when she saw that said plate contained a cup of water that he carefully lifted to her lips so that she could take tiny sips. It was cool and tasted of clay; it was about the sweetest taste that she had ever had the pleasure to experience. Her true desire was to greedily down that cup of water in an instant, but some reasonable voice in the back of her head told her that if she did that, she wouldn't be able to keep the water to herself and had to be careful. It took all of her discipline to keep herself poised, amazed at how much and at the same time how little energy she derived from a few sips of water. After that, her senses were assaulted once more when the elf slipped something into her mouth that Yalene was only able to identify as a honeycomb after a few seconds of sheer explosion of flavour and sweetness on her tongue. Again, it took all of her discipline not to simply swallow it, but to carefully and slowly wring every drop of honey out of it through pressure of her tongue. Just a little food and drink had become such a gesture of kindness to her, that even as the fog lifted and she was able to grasp some strands of rational thoughts again, she found herself clinging to the man's upper arm, her head resting against his cuirass. Feeling kindness again, the simple humanity of having somebody, anybody as company was overwhelming as it was solely needed in her tiny cell. Before, nothing but her thoughts had bounced around in her skull while rotting away in this hole to be forgotten by the world, and forget the world in return. Just having another living, breathing being as company, one that provided a little, was a glimpse of hope that she had never seen this way. She felt the elf chuckle while still grasping his arm and praying that he wouldn't leave so soon.

"You are not exactly on a quest to power, aren't you?" The elf spoke to her in his native tongue now, in a dialect that seemed a bit more harsh to her than her than it was usual, as if he spoke Reikspiel more often. From what she had heard, he was quite comfortable with the language of the Empire. His whisper could be felt close to her ear, as he stretched the words ever so slightly. "Listen to me, sister. Walk out of here this afternoon with the other prisoners, and I will take you away from here. Understood?"

She nodded without truly understanding why she had to be left behind or why the other prisoners were brought away. She had feebly tried to explain to the guards that if she was to be treated like an elf, that she should fall under elven jurisdiction and be handed over to the elven embassy. But somehow, this had been a hilarious suggestion.

Slowly, the elf rose, and it was hard to force herself not to cling to him desperately as if he were a piece of wood and she a drowning woman. Even to her eyes, this was just a little bit pathetic, especially since she hadn't even replied to him and he had done little more than give her a little bit of sustenance. Who was he, anyway? She could see the beige cloak sweeping across the ground in the dim light as he left her in her cell, as well as his human companion. That High Elf had probably been from the elven embassy, and there was at last some justice to be had. It was impossible that he was something else, since only High Elves and Eonir dealt with humans. Wood Elves were isolationists and Dark Elves were enemies, as she knew all too well at this point. Still, why the clandestine comment? Why the challenge to walk any distance? Why couldn't he just have picked her up and taken her to wherever he wanted to go?

For a High Elf, he had also been surprised at her appearance as a Druchii, but astoundingly polite. He had called her 'sister' without any trace of irony. As far as she understood from her grasp of Eltharin, elves called each other relatives, cousins, brothers and sisters when they wanted to express some heartfelt spiritual companionship, when they wanted to invoke trust. They did this exclusively with other elves, as other races were apparently unsuited for an extension of trust this intimate. Still, he had called her 'sister'. This touched her more deeply than she would have thought.

But the thought alone that she didn't have to stay in this tiny cell of eternal night, the thought to see the starlit sky again, to feel the wind on her skin, smell the scent of grass, feel the fabric of clean clothes or the surface of rough paper. She felt so weak, as if her legs were twigs that could never support her weight. But she could soon hear the commotion in the prison, that prisoners were led out of the building, one after the other. Her cell was opened as well, and it took so much strength out of her to rise and make her first few steps, as difficult as if she had unlearned walking, as if she were a toddler making the first, tentative and fumbling steps. But in the end, she rose to full height, straightened her shoulders, ignored her exhaustion, the pain and grief and took one uncertain step after the other. Her hands and feet were promptly chained, as it had been done with the other prisoners, but that alone was not enough to weaken her newly-found resolve.

She and the other prisoners were led to a large hall, all of them human man in various states of deterioration, clad in rags in equally various states of deterioration. Her own appearance couldn't be much better: her black dress was crusted with dirt, her skin felt as if covered by an uncomfortable layer of grime, and she didn't even want to know how she smelled. She could feel that her hair was lanky and in disarray, but the same could be said about the poor souls that had to kneel with her on the ground. Even here, where the poorest of the poor and the condemned were gathered, she noted that even in this cluster of human filth, she was shunned and alone, and even these miserable people shied away from her. One man spat at her, a smirch of saliva landing right before her, and more than one dirty look was cast in her direction. It was not because she was the only woman in this little crowd of a little over a dozen people … it was her face, her ears, the mark on her hand and what it stood for that made her an outcast among outcasts, left alone even among the miserable and lonely.

Yalene decided that it would be best to focus on her surroundings. Judging from the interior, the furniture pushed to the walls and covered with white sheets, the clean, wooden floor and the decorations and artwork on the window frames, she assumed that this was a nobleman's mansion – a summer residence perhaps, or a nobleman's hunting lodge. It also seemed that it had been deserted over winter, and the fact that a dungeon had been added to this mansion meant that it was in the possession of somebody important. The high ceilings and the presence of almost double the guards than prisoners told her as much. This was a spacious place, one that was meant as a retreat, the guards bearing the colours and coat-of-arms of Westerland and Aarnau in particular. She could also smell brine in the air and hear the flapping of waves, so the sea had to be within spitting distance.

The guards looked at the captives with stone-faced countenance, but otherwise, it seemed like their presence was enough to keep a few emaciated prisoners in check. Yalene had no idea how much time she had spent in captivity, but she could see the sun shining kindly through the window, something that hurt her eyes still and left little stars and bright dots in her vision. But she could also see that there was still snow outside, although it was starting to melt.

Her suspicions were confirmed when a man, flanked by two other guards and the prison warden who had taunted her so often entered the room. His clothes were fine and fashionable, his coat fur-lined. It was expensive to use dye of dark blue, so he had done just that without appearing overly decadent; his face was that of a gracefully aged man around Yalene's age, wearing his silver hair short and rounding his well-groomed appearance. Everything about him seemed aristocratic to the point of pompousness, from the way he slightly raised his chin, how he looked down upon the filthy crowd, how he wrinkled his nose and how he demonstratively unfolded a large scroll. Even his voice and cadence supported that impression, with Yalene noting that she had heard that voice before, just a short while ago in the dungeons addressing the elf.

"Freiherr Lothar Florentin van Leeuwen of Aarnau." He was announced simply, because the audience was simple. Still, it was not enough to make a lasting impression on the crowd, who were looking at him out of tired eyes. The Freiherr, the city of Aarnau and the few surrounding lands being his only dominion, cleared his throat to address them all in this ridiculously ceremonial gathering.

"Well met, friends." The Freiherr looked at them like they were bugs that he had to deal with, and he somewhat enjoyed it like a cruel boy would enjoy squashing an ant. "Every single one of you has been condemned to the gallows, or in some cases, even the pyre." He consulted his list and then pointed at the first prisoner, a bear of a man with simmering hate in his eyes.

"Klaas Willems, found guilty of double murder.", the Freiherr stated, only to be interrupted.

"She cheated! I brought justice to her and her lover." The man couldn't continue when he received a hit from the blunt end of a halberd from the guard next to the nobleman. As the man whimpered, curled on the floor writhing in pain, he merely sniffed.

"The verdict: Death." Without missing a beat, the Freiherr stepped further, addressing the next prisoner. "Fiete de Groot. Murder and cannibalism." There was an unspoken sound of disgust that the Freiherr wanted to make about the inconspicuous-looking man. "Verdict: Death." The next man, a frightened Tilean, was found guilty of smuggling, resisting arrest and accidentally killing a guard in the process. Murder, rape, robbery and manslaughter were part of all verdicts spoken around here, sometimes contested by the prisoners, sometimes not so much. Still, most of those sentences seemed believable. There was one other person being accused of worship of the Ruinous Powers, and due to the tattoos of the eye of Tzeentch on the wrists of that man, Yalene was inclined to believe that accusation. Unlike the humans, she was not even given the courtesy of being named, just being accused and judged as a murderess, fire-starter and chaos worshipper. Just like with the cultist that had been addressed earlier, she saw a few of the guards and even prisoners spitting on the ground and mumbling prayers to blessed Sigmar.

Grimly, Yalene thought that in the worst case, there was still a murderer, fire-starter and chaos worshipper on the loose while she was held for these crimes. With luck, they were even the same person. She also started to wonder if the elf she had met earlier would be keeping his promise, or if her mind jumbled by a pounding headache, thirst and starvation had been only imagining him. It was a frightful thought, but not so implausible scenario.

Solemnly, the Freiherr rolled the scroll back into place and gave it to a nearby guard to address the condemned again. "You are dead.", he proclaimed, pointing at one random man. "Dead." He pointed at the next man, exclaiming more dramatically. "Dead." The third man was pointed at. "Dead!" He opened his arms and gestured wildly. "Dead, dead, dead! You are all DEAD!"

Despite the ridiculousness of the theatrical proclamation, the room was so quiet, one could have heard a needle fall. The veracity of his words was not to be questioned, but there was more … a sense of upcoming doom in the air, like the stillness before a storm.

As far as Yalene could tell, the Freiherr quite enjoyed himself, relishing in this scenario in which all eyes were fixated on him while he smiled impishly, leaning forward ever so slightly to conspiratorial whisper to the prisoners. "You were all sentenced to death, but I am inclined to give you a chance to live." With a broad and self-indulgent and smug smile, he took a step back. "After all, we are all the children of Sigmar. You should be given a chance to atone in his name, and if you are strong and faithful enough, you will once more live good and godly lives. What say you?"

He certainly had the fullest attention of the room, Yalene included. She didn't trust this man, though. It was not lawful to spare a person sentenced to death, so what this nobleman was doing was quite clearly self-serving and profitable. Her fellow prisoners, however, were enthusiastic, to say the least.

With a benevolent smile and soothing gesture, the Freiherr bid the room silent. "I think it is time that you meet my guests and your new masters, who will make your new life possible." The thought occurred to Yalene that this speech, and indeed, the approval of his people was more important to him than the substance of whatever scene she was about to witness. For some reason, she thought that this nobleman needed to be justified, needed to know that whatever he would now doing with the prisoners, he would be doing with their blessing. Since he had not exactly told them of their eventual fate, Yalene thought this to be hypocritical. She was instantly proven right when she saw who exactly those guests were.

The first person entering was tall and imposing, his skin ghastly pale and his hair, black like polished coal, was worn in a corsair's topknot. His pointed ears marked him as much as an elf like his facial features, his height or the smooth and strangely alien way he moved, graceful like a cat-of-prey on the prowl. But it was the tiny runes on his cheekbones, the dark cloak, blackened cuirass and darkened attire that showed clear as day that this was a Dark Elf, accompanied by similarly clothed men, their eyes and steel sharp. Yalene could feel her heart sink, all her hope crushed this moment. Everywhere she went, Dark Elves appeared out of nowhere. Worse, she remembered the face of this particular man – it was the butcher who had stopped her in the alley in Hochfels. He might have saved her that day, but would have captured her just as well if given half the chance, nevermind that she had seen him work, that she had seen the sadistic glee in his eyes when slaughtering her fellow humans. And now, he was here … the last time she saw him, he was collecting slaves and crushing any resistance. He was not crushing resistance right now and looked more like he was about to do business, so that left one conclusion in this situation.

The Freiherr was selling his people as slaves.

While Yalene had still trouble moving and most certainly had trouble speaking, that thought, the practice appalled and disgusted her. The nobleman might have justified himself that he would only sell those already condemned to death, but that didn't matter. Death was honest, but slavery under Dark Elves war torture, it was crushing the spirit with the vain hope that one day, they could escape. What kind of life was that? She had never heard of anybody escaping the Druchii; she had only heard of atrocities committed by them, and people having been dragged screaming onto their dark ships with their dark sails, never to be seen again. What the nobleman did was injustice, and the Druchii themselves were injustice.

The room had gotten very quiet as the Dark Elf and the Freiherr greeted each other as the wary, cautious business partners they were. The feeling of dread frightened people into silence, paralysed them into compliance. Polite and cautious pleasantries were exchanged before the Dark Elf, evidently the leader of his cadre, stepped closer to her and bent down, an amicable smile on his face.

"Hello again, sister. Do you see me now?"

She had assumed by now that the visitor in her cell earlier had been him … she hadn't noticed that he had been no High Elf at all, hadn't seen his face or had seen any signs of him being a Druchii. No wonder he had called her 'sister', as he erroneously assumed that they were of the same race. While Yalene was busy glaring at him, the Dark Elf turned to one of his companions, who wore his hair in a similar fashion and sported a goatee.

"That's the bird that flew away from us in that ash heap of a town. I'm dying to hear the story about that." While his companion smiled politely, the Druchii leader addressed her again in Eltharin, drawing a puzzled look by Freiherr van Leeuwen.

"I'm Ruvol Blackwater. What's your name?"

"Yalene.", she answered curtly, her voice sounding weak and raspy, barely a whisper. She took care to pronounce her name the elven way, or at least how she thought an elf would use his melodic language to pronounce her name. It seemed to be convincing enough, though. Now it was her turn to exchange pleasantries with a Dark Elf. While the other prisoners were dragged outside by guard and Druchii alike, she remained kneeling on the floor, although one of the guards indeed followed a gesture by this Ruvol Blackwater, so that at least her chains were opened. Since the chains were only one of many things keeping her in place, she let it happened with astounding indifference, feeling numb through the whole experience.

"That sounds nice. Listen to me, Yalene ..." She was still taken aback by the fact that this man whom she had mostly known through bloodshed now seemed so cultivated, amiable and downright friendly. The world was upside down, a Druchii cared more for her safety than a human. It was dizzying just thinking about that, all the while watchful of her surroundings. Blackwater was now gesturing to the back of the room, where she now spotted the unmistakable cover of her father's grimoire. "Are these all of your possessions?"

"The most precious one.", she replied with some effort. It probably would have been smarter to just lie about a grimoire, of all things, but she couldn't possibly see how lying her way out of this situation would benefit her, especially since she had no idea what was now about to happen now. It was abundantly clear that the prisoners were about to be shipped off as slaves. It appeared to her that she wouldn't share that fate.

"I will help you up in a minute. When I do, get behind me. Do you understand?" Oh dear, there was something more afoot here. Yalene nodded resignedly, thinking that evidently an elven appearance meant that things tended to happen to her, and not that she made things happen. She also received the distinct impression that it was the Dark Elves who did not want to harm her, which meant that her allegiance was there right now. If she would think more about it, she would feel more horrified. Satisfied with the exchange, Ruvol Blackwater turned to the Freiherr again, switching to Reikspiel fluidly.

"She says the book is elven … it must be an old dialect."

The nobleman smiled politely. "So you will pay the agreed upon price?"

Blackwater sighed overly resignedly. "I have no other choice. It seems like this woman and her book are a package. What did you say?"

"Eighty gold crowns."

'Moron. A grimoire is worth more.', Yalene thought grimly. It was then when Ruvol Blackwater extended his hands towards her in a helpful fashion, a seemingly casual gesture. When she obediently laid her hands into his, he briefly paused, pointedly looking at the back of her hand and tsk-tsking. "He really shouldn't have done that.", he told her in Eltharin, and with a swift motion, pulled her on her feet. She had no time to adjust, even though it felt like her knees were made of dough and she was instantly hit by a wave of vertigo. Still, she stumbled behind him as requested, and it was good that she did so. While she cowered behind the tall elf and closed her eyes, because she had the distinct feeling something terrible was about to happen and she didn't want to see it. She turned out to be correct, and could hear and practically feel how the room erupted into sudden violence: She heard crossbow bolts being shot, cries of pain, shouting and some amount of bleeding, she presumed. It took mere moments before silence fell, and she dared to open her eyes, only to discover that she was trembling and standing in a room that had been overrun by Dark Elves in the blink of an eye, again. As far as she could tell, the Freiherr's men had been overwhelmed by Dark Elf corsairs that had come from gods know where in some kind of sneak attack, wounding most of the guards and now dragging them away, putting those to the sword that resisted too much. It was the aftermath of carnage that she had blocked out of her numbed mind and was now staring at Ruvol Blackwaters face, who looked awfully pleased with himself.

The nobleman was sputtering, being held by Blackwater's companion from earlier, a knife being held threateningly at his throat. The Druchii leader addressed him in a manner way too calm than the situation warranted, idly cleaning his blade. "You call us monsters. Why aren't you listening to your own words, little man? " The Dark Elf fixated the nobleman now, his gaze intense. "What we do to each other is our business. But when you, human, harm one of ours, you harm all of us. We are Druchii – we repay any pain, any wrong done to us a hundredfold."

This speech was enough to keep the Freiherr as well as Yalene silent while Ruvol Blackwater continued, a sadistic smile now creeping on his features as he addressed her in Reikspiel, so that the horrified nobleman could understand them. "You are the wounded party here, my dear. Do you want his tongue?"

She just stared at him incredulously.

"His eyeballs, then?"

What was wrong with those people? She could barely restrain herself from asking this question aloud, forcing herself to politely smile. "How about not making a mess?"

For a moment, she saw Blackwater's eyes narrowing before he chuckled. "You are right. A sacrifice to Khaine should not be done in pieces, and he so does love nobleman blood." He gestured to his companion. "Get him on Cahoris' ship; tell her to keep him alive."

Yalene would have never thought to ever see this proud nobleman, who had strutted around in complete control of his life and the situation, now reduced to a man being dragged away kicking and screaming. It was a pitiful sight, and from what she had seen and learned, it was the sight of a man facing a fate worse than death. Sacrifices to Khaine were particularly bloody, a thought that the Druchii before her obviously had to get away from those people as quickly as possible.

That was however not the plan for the Druchii leader, who turned to her, his demeanour eerily calm again. "We intended to take him for a while now; your presence just hastened our plans. I wanted you to know that."

'Splendid?', she thought, and settled for a slightly puzzled: "Thank you."

"What about her?", a Dark Elf soldier beside Ruvol Blackwater asked, and he seemed to weigh his options while eyeing her from head to toe in a way that Yalene didn't particularly appreciate. She took comfort in the knowledge that even in the body of a breathtakingly beautiful elf, she currently looked her worst, dirty and dishevelled. But what good or bad would it do her? Those Dark Elves didn't exactly look like they wanted to let her roam free now. She wasn't even certain that this was possible in her current state, not to mention with the mark on her hand.

After a short pause, the Druchii leader had decided. "I want to hear the story behind it all. So much doesn't make sense about you." He turned to the soldier. "Get her to my cabin and tell Mireille to get her taken care of and dressed. I want to have a little chat with her later."

Yalene would have rolled her eyes if she hadn't been busy being aghast and confused in equal measure. Before she could ponder on her situation, before she could even think, she was taken by the arm by the soldier in a surprisingly respectful manner. She was even able to shake his hand off in an effort to retain even some remote control over the situation, straightened her shoulders and complied with the ridiculous demand. So, she was to be taken into a 'cabin', which together with the status as a leader, made her conclude that this Ruvol Blackwater was a captain amongst them, and she was currently in no position or condition to defy those orders, however they may lead. So she followed the soldier to a fate unknown.