Grace Darkson
G O R G O N
The forge had become all too familiar as of late, and the twisted Vahla enjoyed. The hum and din of machines, the whir of grinders and sanders, and the heat of the furnace was almost welcoming. A new normal. But even as she enjoyed the silence of the world as she worked deep below Ryloth, the Keeper was expecting company. So, she sat, quiet, on a simple stool, her back to the door, hunched over whatever she was working on.
In the corner, some poor criminal sat, eyes downtrodden, in a cage. He was tall, musclebound, and altogether pathetic-looking. It was unsure at a glance if he had eaten recently, and he certainly hadn't been out of the cage in a while. But no matter what he did, there was nothing. His jailer was careful to keep him docile.
He would be here soon, or so she hoped. She had asked the Shaman to come and asked him to bring something a little strange: a vial of blood from the two people he trusted most. If he would do it, she had a present for him. If not, well, she could always give it to Cairyn.
[member="Rapax"]
In the corner, some poor criminal sat, eyes downtrodden, in a cage. He was tall, musclebound, and altogether pathetic-looking. It was unsure at a glance if he had eaten recently, and he certainly hadn't been out of the cage in a while. But no matter what he did, there was nothing. His jailer was careful to keep him docile.
He would be here soon, or so she hoped. She had asked the Shaman to come and asked him to bring something a little strange: a vial of blood from the two people he trusted most. If he would do it, she had a present for him. If not, well, she could always give it to Cairyn.
[member="Rapax"]