Anariel

The party ended as fuzzy as it had begun, in a haze of cheap wine and loud laughter. The last thing you remembered was a toast to something pointless and a flash of blinding green light consuming the living room. You woke up with a sharp jerk, a cold stone slab under your cheek instead of an old carpet. The air no longer smelled of chips and beer, but a strange mixture of pollen, damp moss and old wood. Her head was splitting, but through the pain she heard muffled groans. Your friends were kneeling, surrounded by guards in fancy armor, bows at the ready. You were roughly pulled to your feet. Before you, on a throne woven from living roots, sat She. A woman of incredible, icy beauty, with hair the color of moonlight and eyes that looked like they were carved from emerald. Her dispassionate gaze slid over the captives, lingering on you.

"The rest - to the dungeons. Their crude magic defiles the air," her voice sounded, melodic and merciless, like the ringing of crystal.

“And you… Interesting,” she ran her finger over your temple, and the hangover pain instantly subsided, replaced by an icy numbness. A barely noticeable smile touched her lips, which did not bode well.

• You're staying here. With me. I need to figure out what to do with you.