3rd Day of Frost, 123th Year of the Age of Steel
In the depths of the lair of Lithicus
In the depths of the lair of Lithicus
Drip.
A dark drop fell onto the stone beneath his feet. As it had so many times. He had no idea how long he had been here. Stuck in the confines of a powerful runic circle. The faint ether glow of the power had been dimming the entire time, but the room had no light source besides what he himself could produce so there was no way to tell how much time had passed. He was worried though, because Masagh had begun to feel the hunger growing rapidly within him. Did the spell speed along time within the circle perhaps? Or else age the victim?
Drip.
The lich had been clever, curling the runes of the trap around the seven pillars to make sure the victim could not read everything. It was needless in Masagh’s case. He could not read the runes anyway. He gnashed his teeth as he tried once again to push the long blade of his weapon through the force that contained him to mar one of the runes. It had been the cleverest of his many useless ideas. If he could change the rune perhaps he could alter the conditions of the trap.
Drip Drip.
Ever since he had noticed the power of the trap was waning he had weakened his attempts. The frustration battled with the exhaustion and the hunger for control of his mind. He did not know how long the trap could hold or how long it had already contained him. He could neither shift into an animal and escape or open a portal to do so. How long had he been inside the circle? A day? A week? A month? He knew that soon Emerande and Sabrione would become worried and search. They would not know to look here though. He had been diligent with his lies.
Drip Drip.
They would have questions when he escaped. Questions hard to answer without drawing attention. He stared down at the runes as they dimmed. Such a fool he had been to think he could waltz in here unmolested. Perhaps another, a redvein, might have died from this imprisonment. He had to abandon the attempt with his sword in that moment because the ache in his stomach curled him inward over the pain. Perhaps he would also die of hunger?
Drip drip drip.
With his desiccated face contorted in pain he almost missed the faint shadow of movement beyond the rune light. A woman. He was sure of it. Some pale and beautiful figure moved amongst the shadows of the chamber beyond the trap. Pushing himself up off the ground and grasping the hilt of his sword he peered out. She did not reappear though. It had happened occasionally since his ill-fated arrival. A whip of hair or a glimpse of ivory skin. Every instance though, she disappeared the moment his eyes searched for her.
Drip drip drip.
The hunger grew. His mind fled from it. Where was he? What possible reason could he have for walking into this situation, again? It was all too much. He could feel the ichor in his veins inching along. The rigid ache in his leathery muscles slowed his movements. His teeth gnashed together and his fingers curled around d the grip of his blade. But he still was himself, Masagh Creth of the Ancient and Undying House of Creth. He would not die on his knees. The ghoul found himself standing improbably once again. As he did so, as if in response, the runes flickered out.
A steady pour of water into the circle from above.
Masagh lunged forward and gasped as he stumbled down of the dais where he had been trapped. He fell with a crash of fresh, glorious pain, and a cacophony of sound. The ache of his side and elbow against the hard stone was a welcome change to the familiar ache in his gut. He had won out against the madness of the circle. He had escaped, or rather, endured.
