[i]Hours later...[/i]
[hr]
Her rump was nearly as sore as her head. The flagstones beneath her, while well carved, had a sandpaper-like texture that chafed even through her trousers. The room was dim, but still somehow too bright for her eyes. The only source of light was down the left hall; a single flame flickering in the distance, mocking her with its dancing. Next, she could feel her hands were pins and needles and stretched above her head. Chains tightly bound upon them and keeping them up. 

But the truly horrifying feeling, was when she tried to summon her magics. The telltale sign of her senses awakening, the tingling and the euphoria of the magic in the air...gone. It was as if she had been entirely severed from the weave of magic in the universe, and all now had less hope. One who used magic often felt its presence like a second skin, and without it, it was hard to feel the taste of life for a short while. Or so the stories say. 

An open door down the hall, as well as a myriad of footsteps announced the arrival of the multitude of scarred men that came to see their latest and most prized catch. At the fore was a large man, with proud shoulders and a gnarled, albeit charming nose. A red cloak cloth wrapped around his head to form a kufiya, and at his waist was a massive shamshir. 

"The sorceress...awake I see." he said in broken northern. His eyes drifted up to her arms, and a broad grin stretched across his face. "Your cufflinks work I see. Not that I am surprised. They were made to cage the Djinn. You will find no spark of your witchery here." 

The man turned to a shorter, more portly servant in a similar headdress, though he wore tan robes befitting of a master servant or chamberlain. 

"Place her in the dancer garb, and bring her to my throne room." he told him. "Make sure she isn't roughed up too much. I like them pretty."