The Dragon's Cry

You step carefully over the ledge onto the ground below, and cross the stream. There doesn't seem to be anyone moving in the shadows beyond the door, so you figure it's safe to go through. Taking a deep breath and hoping the darkness won't provide cover for anyone else, you step across the threshold.

The corridor you enter is short, and lit by intermittent torches. Listening for footsteps, you creep along one wall, dagger in hand. When you reach the end of the hall, you peer around the corner before moving any farther. There is a torchlit area far to your left, populated by soldiers, tables, and, presumably, alcohol. Dismissing any doors at that end as possible escape routes, you look the other way and see darkness, deep enough to provide cover if you are quiet. You tiptoe out of the hall and turn to the right.

You encounter several repellent, bug-eyed rodents as you progress, but they keep quiet. Quiet enough, in fact, to let you hear someone coming toward you. You turn around, looking back at the soldiers, and see two of them striding purposefully in your direction. You freeze, expecting trouble, but they turn the corner into the corridor you just left. Okay, you think, turning back to face the wall, this is ridiculous. I'm going to get out of here.

Just ahead, there seems to be an indentation in the wall. You approach, and find an old-looking door, with no knob, set into a rough jamb. Crossing your fingers, you push hesitantly on the door, and feel it move beneath your hands. Suddenly hopeful, you push harder, and the door opens . . . with an ear-numbing squeal. You don't stop to look behind you; you can hear the soldiers' chairs scraping the floor, and you have absolutely no desire to be standing there staring when they reach the door. You plunge into the darkness ahead, heave the door closed behind you, and take off at as fast a pace as you can manage.

Your dark-sight serves you well as you barrel down a narrow corridor similar to the one you left earlier. The ceiling is just high enough for you to stand up straight, but the floor is more than treacherous enough. You manage to avoid most of the mud puddles, with the exception of one you slide through to get around a rotting crate. When you reach a cross-corridor, you turn down it, not caring where it leads. You only want to get as far from the door as you can.

The corridor ends in a staircase up, which you climb without more than a moment's thought. The landing is lit with a torch, illuminating yet another narrow hall leading straight ahead. With an inward groan, you go forward again, turn at the next crossing--

--and trip. You sprawl on the floor, with the breath knocked out of you and your feet tangled in what feels like . . . branches?

"Hey!" says a female voice from behind you.

A person? You twist around, and see a small, brunette woman picking herself up from the floor. She bounces to her feet, quickly and soundlessly, and looks at you. "Watch it, you . . . what are you, anyway?" She doesn't seem to have the slightest clue as to your identity. Good, you think. She's not working for the guys who captured me... I think.

"Weredragon," you say.

A look of surprise crosses her pointed features. "A weredragon? But I thought--"

"Thought what?" you demand. If she's connected to the bad guys, you want time to scram.

"That you looked like half man, half dragon," she finishes, dusting off her dark-gray tunic. She bends to pick up a small silvery object from the floor, and as she straightens up, brushing back her wispy straight hair, you catch sight of a pointed ear. She notices you staring. "Half elf," she says by way of explanation, kneeling in front of a door to her left and inserting the piece of metal into its padlock. "And half finished. If you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."

You realize, with a good measure of surprise, that she intends to pick the lock. "What are you--" you begin, but stop when cold steel suddenly comes to rest against your stomach. You look down, into green-gold eyes that seem capable of doing as much piercing as the blade their owner wields.

"I should kill you," she muses. "I was stupid enough to let you see me at work; you can tell the guards and they'll take me away."

"Are you kidding?" you say. "The guards are chasing me too!"

The blade disappears, and after a moment you realize the thief is gone as well. You locate her at the cross-hall, looking around the corner. She turns to you. "Not here yet." She returns to the lock, taking out the pick and shoving it into a dark leather pouch at her belt. "We have time to get out of here. Do you know the way out?" When you shake your head no, she sighs. "Follow me if you can," she says, and starts down the hall away from the stairs.

You want to follow, but you have no idea where she's going, or how to find her if you get separated. "Wait!" you call, and in an instant she is back beside you, giving you a closer look at her scimitar. You gulp.

"Never do that again," she hisses. "If you're going to follow me, be quiet. I refuse to be caught because an ignorant halfman forgets he's being chased. Now, what did you want to ask me?"

"What's your name?" you ask, not wanting to mention that the "halfman" comment was less than complimentary. "In case I have to find you," you amend hastily as her eyes narrow.

She puts the blade back in its sheath before answering. "Aisalin. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I am. If you weren't being chased, I wouldn't have let you live to hear that much." She pauses, listening, and a worried look comes over her face. "Guards. If you're coming, you better come now."

What will you do?

Contributed by Katie Foreman

Things to consider while writing in this branch

The dagger. Where did it come from? Does it have any magical properties (other than its obvious resistance to decay)? Will Shree ever find out about it?
The rune. Is it the mark of a mage? a curse? or the equivalent of Kilroy?
The skeleton. Who was it? Was s/he important? Who killed him/her? When? Does it matter?
What is Aisalin doing here?
Location, location, location!


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