An hour ago, they stood beneath the magnificent glow of golden runes. Now, they were trapped at the bottom of an abyss.
The transition from the sacred throne room to this Dwarven holding cell felt like being hurled off a cliff. The space was cramped, damp, and suffocating. It was barely large enough for five people to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, wedged between solid black stone walls.
The only light inside came from the veins of purplish-red runes pulsing sluggishly along the walls. The dim glow cast long, distorted shadows across the cell.
Drip... drop...
Cold condensation dripped rhythmically from the agonizingly low stone ceiling. The air was stifling, thick with the stench of wet mud and rusted metal.
Rianor Sudrath sat leaning against the furthest wall. He adjusted his glasses. His black hair was plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. His left hand, mangled from the torture in Magniora, was now wrapped in makeshift bandages by Selene.
