Yvain froze like mid step, like a cat that had been caught sneaking up on someone and wasn't sure whether it should charge forward or retreat. They had come to a hallway of dilapidated stonework, crude barricades of piled stone constructed at either end that menaced with large wooden spikes where the ravages of time hadn't caused them to rot away or snap under their own weight. A tattered banner lay draped over one of them, a brown skull cackling at her. Beyond the barricade, through a small gap that gave entry, she could see moldering tarps piled on the ground that may have once been tents. Enough for two dozen men at least. Among they lay scattered bones and old brown stains.

An orcish warband, maybe? She had heard they painted their banners in the blood of their foes. Who were they? The Everdark was old, and it was witness to more deaths than even her ancient mother. They could have been an enemy raid, or mercenaries hired by the dungeons master? Had they been killed by adventurers, like the others, or the residents? They could have even been the victims of an inter-faction spat within the Everdark itself, as sometimes happened. Who could say?

Her minecart of thought was derailed as Sword asked her another question. [i]In the opera. It was big, with a long silver blade and an ornate black hilt set with rubies. It was beautiful.[/i] She thought back to a few of the assassins that had been sent by her sisters. [i]I never thought it looked right. It was too big. It took an age to swing, you would see it coming from a mile away. If a sword like that really exited I always thought it would be more subtle. Old. And really, [i]really[/i] sharp.[/i]

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