"Where are you taking me?" Much asked furiously, trying to break away from the man's grasp as he led the boy out of the stadium, down a dark alley. "Hey! Hey, stop it!" The man ignored him and Much seethed, twisting in his grasp. Finally, he was punched in the face, and stars exploded behind his eyes. "I... hate... you..." he slurred, before everything went black. ~~ When Much awoke, he was in a dim square room lit only by a low fire in the fireplace. He was slumped in a chair, his hands and feet, surprisingly, unbound, and a dark figure stood with his back to the boy at a desk, writing quickly on a sheaf of parchment. "You're awake." said the man, almost kindly, not turning around. "Where am I?" asked Much, springing to his feet and looking around for a door. He found one, and sprang towards it, but the man, quick as a flash, sent him sprawling to the floor. He held out his hand, those sharp green eyes twinkling in what little of his wind-tanned face Much could see. His fingernails were strangely pointed, a little reminiscent of claws... "My name is Ascar Ethorr. We're going to be great friends..." ~~ "SEVEN DESTRYERS FALLEN," boomed Petre, his voice only a dim noise in the face of Maethor's absolute concentration. She was going to do this. She'd done it dozens of times before, and it didn't matter that she was getting tired. The feyrie retreated to the center of the ring, goading the Destryer forwards. Closer. So close. She tensed, ready to spring, her sword out as the horse thundered by. Three, Two, One...
The split second before she sprang, blinding pain shot through her, causing her hand to fly to her neck, where an old scar rested. Such pain. It burrowed deep inside her mind, ripping through all the defenses she had put up against it as if they were nothing more than tissue paper. It proved that, no matter what Maethor did, how far she ran, how hard she tried to hide, how often she tried to forget, it was all useless. He still had control. The scar burned hot under her gloved hand, as hot as the day when it had first been branded into her skin, and the audience watched, bemused, as their hero crumpled slowly to the floor. They watched as the Destryer, seizing its chance, charged towards her. They heard her scream- high, shrill, piercing, writhing on the floor as though possessed. Then, and this utterly flabbergasted them, they saw her pull herself to her feet and walk calmly out of the arena, completely ignoring her opponent. One man would claim that her eyes had been glowing yellow, but he was a drunkard: no one believed him anyways.
