DrBleep's Tale Sandbox 3

Heat and flames licked at the shelves and rows of scrolls and manuscripts all around, thick black smoke congealing near the ceiling in a river of crushing suffocation. Webbed fingers drug the golden scaled, lithe Finnfolk along the floor. Her royal robes quickly coaking in smoke and ash, blood oozing from a laceration running from forehead up into her hair.

Gotta get out. Gotta get out.

She'd manage to blast his guards back, and knock him over, but not before the fire had been set. The rustics, ancient symbols of the original languages, had come from a place of terror and rage at the calous disregard for history and knowledge. Naturally, it had only helped the embers spread into flames.

There, the door out. All she had to do was reach it, and then help would be there, surely the Magisters had seen the fire. They must already be here to put it out, surely there was someone who would help save her from Skreyja's clutches.

The searing heat of the fire had begun to evaporate the layer of saline water on the floor, and was quickly drying Hege's scales. Her head throbs, and her vision swirls with dizziness but it's either crawl or die where she lay. Every motion is agonizing, but finally she breaches the threshold of the doorway, dragging herself out into the cool, moist air of gud-Baldin's spring air.

Her thumping heart stops, and her stomach drops. No one is outside except Skreyja. A scream for help dies on her lips, as a harsh jolt to the back of the head sends her into darkness.

The black Cessna M2 bounces in the air, roughly stirring Princess Hege Aquailian from the unpleasant nightmare that was the beginning of her imprisonment.

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