[ By those cinders burning in his eyes, she knows he has not yet resigned himself irretrievably to this fate. He can still be summoned back, and if there is vengeance to be roused in him, how many other prisoners milling in this place can be enlisted to their cause? They do not need them all - she does not want them all, having little interest in engineering a mass liberation that only becomes more likely to fail the more complicated it grows. They need just enough help to overpower the guards supervising their stay in these ruins. The rest can fend for themselves.
Once they escape this barbaric custody, he can do with his noble vengeance as he likes. Her focus is entirely on the method of escape, and the question he raises is not one she had considered. In her own realm, a sword was a sword, no matter whose hand curled around the hilt. The blade would kill, regardless of its master's allegiance. But he is right - this is not her realm, and the weapons are not any that she knows. They are infused with what can only be called magic, and magic is not so simple as a sword's edge.
A divot comes to her brow, and she lifts her eyes to trace the outlines of the nearest guards, and those whips they so favor. Would they fall limp in a stranger's hands? They were destined only for recapture and retribution, then. Once she escapes this place, she intends never to be dragged back. ]
Perhaps we ought to determine if any of those fools can be won to our side. [ She has considered this, of course - seducing a guard into her favor would be the most reliable means of escape. All the more does she resent this plain white robe, for it is infinitely less fetching than silk. She has yet to secure a moment even vaguely secluded with one of their guards, either, and is not convinced she would benefit from doing so. They seem rather bent on their objective, whatever in the seven hells it happens to be.
She can procure no spear and unfurl no whips, but outfoxing men has always been, she thinks, among her most profitable gifts. Her eyes return to his face, measuring, hoping somewhere in her heart that he mirrors her dragon prince in more than appearance. ]
If you could slip away, would you be able to improvise a spear?
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Once they escape this barbaric custody, he can do with his noble vengeance as he likes. Her focus is entirely on the method of escape, and the question he raises is not one she had considered. In her own realm, a sword was a sword, no matter whose hand curled around the hilt. The blade would kill, regardless of its master's allegiance. But he is right - this is not her realm, and the weapons are not any that she knows. They are infused with what can only be called magic, and magic is not so simple as a sword's edge.
A divot comes to her brow, and she lifts her eyes to trace the outlines of the nearest guards, and those whips they so favor. Would they fall limp in a stranger's hands? They were destined only for recapture and retribution, then. Once she escapes this place, she intends never to be dragged back. ]
Perhaps we ought to determine if any of those fools can be won to our side. [ She has considered this, of course - seducing a guard into her favor would be the most reliable means of escape. All the more does she resent this plain white robe, for it is infinitely less fetching than silk. She has yet to secure a moment even vaguely secluded with one of their guards, either, and is not convinced she would benefit from doing so. They seem rather bent on their objective, whatever in the seven hells it happens to be.
She can procure no spear and unfurl no whips, but outfoxing men has always been, she thinks, among her most profitable gifts. Her eyes return to his face, measuring, hoping somewhere in her heart that he mirrors her dragon prince in more than appearance. ]
If you could slip away, would you be able to improvise a spear?