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She was napping in the woods on a Nexus of energy. Nobody bothering her. No urgent responsibilities. Trying not to let her ever-present angst get too big.
Weiss Faron knows she is troubled. Perhaps even depressed. A hero complex, or something like that.
The long details of her inner turmoil and angst could fill quite some pages, but now is perhaps not quite the time.
Ileosa's fighter in the game completes her combo, juggling Sabina's pale harpoon-wielder in mid-air with successive hits and knocking her out before she crashes back down. Her character lands on the defeated opponent and grinds her heel into the wounds.
"Best of five? You'll have to take another forfeit..."
"She was first spotted above the Acadamae, flying in, with white robes and fur. According to eavesdropping imps, she also lacked a local language but had her own spell for translation, and expressed a desire to learn our magic."
Sabina and Ileosa exchange a look, then turn to the illusion of the white-robed kitsune who Ileosa had been playing.
"We may have some idea of her abilities already."
"You're a lucky bastard."
Some interrogations have to be done personally. The Key-Lock Killer undoubtedly qualifies.
"Am I? Here I am, stuck in a cell with broken fingers and no spellbook. You look luckier on the other side of the bars."
He'd rather be staying silent. That's always how he'd thought he would act, playing it cool, when he occasionally considered the risks of being caught for his crimes. But he doesn't know if his father or on-off lover were captured or killed, and if he wants any hints to help plan a jailbreak with them he'll have to keep the jailors talking.
"The king's funeral has been held, and the queen is due to be officially crowned any day now. With a coronation and a new era comes a wave of pardons, maybe even a general amnesty. All you need to do is give us something, convince us that you're contrite or could serve the city better alive, and we'll have a reason not to expedite your execution and keep the guards with a grudge from the shifts guarding you."
"You and I both know there's no chance of that. The Pharasmins would riot. The public should too, unless you've kept my capture very hush-hush, no?"
"Do you want to go to one of the lower planes? Even if you're resigned to death, telling us about where any of your left-over undead are lurking so their spirits can be freed would help your case in the court of the afterlives."
"If you want to know that you can rip it from my skull with a Speak With Dead. Send a priest next time if you want to proselytize."
She sighs and leaves. No more wasting her time here in an attempt to save others' spell slots. In the morning they can get a caster over here for the magical interrogation.
Spiders start to scuttle into the cell. A few, at first, creeping through the shadows of the ceiling and through the bars of the door. When the guard fails to notice them, more come, great clumps of them, swarming in a trickle and then a torrent of chitinous legs, until the whole ceiling of Rolth's cell is covered by the twitching mass, a living carpet of insects.
They have carried with them silk-wrapped bundles, and they turn their fangs on one of them. It is unwrapped to reveal a scroll, lowered down on a strand of silk to brush the face of the sleeping Rolth.
The scroll bears text written in a phosphorescent ink.
"WE SPOKE OF COOPERATION. ARE YOU RESOLVED?"
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