Your wrists feel cold, almost like a ghost memory of the manacles you wore for so long within the 
prison. You close your eyes trying to will the memories away, rubbing your wrists to warm them up. 
But the metal of the clasps is unyielding, still sapping the heat away from you, still preventing 
your ability to cast.

You open your eyes once more still unable to really believe the situation, even chained into the 
centre of this ritual circle as you have been. You have no idea where you are, you don't know 
entirely what will happen, but you know the cause. Trantis stands mere feet away, checking details 
in a book, a wicked three bladed scythe held in one hand, dark glyphs inscribed across each blade.

You feel the tears welling up inside, but you fight to keep them down. No matter how much this scene 
is too much like the other events of your life, you refuse to show weakness; not now, not to him.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask as much out of a desire to understand as a hope to distract him; 
to buy yourself more time, more chance of rescue.

"I told you, you could not trust me," he replies in a dead even tone, "you knew what I seek to do, 
of the path I walk. I shall continue till all are dead, till all go to feed the three. They in return 
have shown me to how to continue to last longer on this plane that the mortal lifespan of this body 
would allow. For this I need you; I shall take your long elven life as my own."

He returns to his chanting, hammering the butt of the scythe down at each inscribed point in the 
circle, the sharp metal spike on the end of the handle leaving an impression with each strike. Dark 
words, words you don't understand, flow from his mouth and as the power builds you hear a reverb in 
his voice as if it's not him speaking but instead three voices in unison. 

Minutes pass, your chains hold fast, no hope of escape, no time to be rescued; as the hope fades the 
tears come, unbidden and unpreventable. Trantis stands above you, now raising the weapon high above 
you, the spike aimed at your heart.

"Serve the three, serve them and they shall remake you and return you to this world. Reject them and 
they will feast upon you for all eternity." he says speaking normally once more, perhaps a hint of 
hope in his voice.

"NO!" You scream your last act of defiance, raising your arms up, the cold steel of the manacles 
pressing on your face chilling you through. You hear the whistle of a blade passing through the air, 
but the blow doesn’t fall. Uncovering your eyes you see the real world once more, Nab making practise 
swings with his sword only a few feet away.