The robed minion who had once been Agael heard the doors to the Court slam shut, sealing the doom of the prisoners he and the dread knights were escorting toward the throne. Behind him, some of the prisoners were taking in their new and macabre surroundings. Some made the mistake of looking up into the ceiling. [i]Why must they [/i]always[i] look up?[/i] Agael thought to himself.

Up in the looming darkness, the shackled thralls could faintly make out the grisly display hanging by chains from the ceiling above. Mummified cadavers, sinew-bound skeletons, and flayed skins dangled from above like so many macabre mobiles. Some hung listlessly in the darkness, and others shuddered gently in the drafts, but there were a few victims that wriggled weakly against the metal hooks that dug into their bodies. The Court of the Dead was not the most accurate name for this place, for not all of its victims were yet truly dead.

The dread knights presented the shackled prisoners to the foot of the black throne before standing rigid still. There, the prisoners were granted their first glimpse of the master of these lands.

"Is that you?" A bearded and scarred prisoner scoffed, gesturing to the shriveled being seated upon the throne with his shackled hands. The smell of grog wafted from his lips with every breath. "That's you? The dark lord himself? The Great Lord Octa in the flesh? Pah! You're naught but a damned prune! You don't scare me you miserable mumblecrust!"

The rigid being on the throne twitched slightly. There was an audible crackle - akin to the sound of a handful of dry leaves being crushed between two hands as Lord Octa's head turned to the heckling prisoner. With a loud series of pops and dry ripping sounds, the dark lord ascended from his throne and slowly hobbled down the steps of the raised dais upon which the throne was placed. A cracking pop sounded from Lord Octa's knees and legs with each step. The dark lord shambled toward the shouting prisoner.

"Look at you, you pathetic wretch. You can't even walk. You're no more a threat than the village drunkard. Face me like a man! Unshackle me, and I'll teach you some manners you damnable catamite! I will shove my boot so far up your ass you'll be-"

At that moment, one of the dread knights seized the bearded prisoner, grasping him on the shoulders with vice-like chainmail gauntlets. As the prisoner struggled against his captor, Lord Octa stood before him. A gray, bony hand reached out to the prisoner's forehead - who was too surprised to say or do anything to resist. Lord Octa placed his cold, lifeless hand upon the prisoner's brow. As soon as the dark lord's palm was pressed upon his forehead, the bearded prisoner crumbled. A cloud of dust billowed to the floor, settling as a heap of disarticulated bones and dust, the shackles clanged against the stone tiles amidst freed knuckle bones and dusted.

The remaining prisoners watched in abject horror as the arm that had touched the prisoner's forehead now swelled with life, the desiccated flesh on Lord Octa's left arm had returned to a peachy, lifelike hue. The life essence drained from the prisoner distributed itself throughout the dark lord's body until he resembled as a pale, wrinkled human more than a mummified revenant. The dark lord gasped as air filled to his restored lungs, and his movements were more natural and flowing. Lord Octa now appeared before the remaining prisoners as a living man - but barely so.

"One of your fellow prisoners was freed before they could be delivered to me," Lord Octa said to the surviving prisoners with his own voice. "I want this escapee back. The lot of you will tell me precisely what happened during the journey here." Lord Octa gestured with a newly-invigorated hand to the pulverized flesh and bones on the floor behind him, "or you will meet a similar end."

Lord Octa looked over the remaining prisoners and beckoned for the elven girl to be brought before him. One of the dread knights grasped her firmly by the shoulders. He gestured to have her gag removed.

"Be cautious, your majesty," Agael whispered into the dark lord's wizened ear. "She is an elf, and I fear she may have some magical prowess."

"That would make two of us," Lord Octa dismissed as the mail-clad fingers of the dread knights untied her gag. "If she attempt whatever pitiful magic she can conjure against me, she will make the greatest miscalculation of her life."

"Now," Lord Octa said, turning back to the ungagged elven girl. "Speak."