Drakkon

Lorelei was awakened by the sound of footsteps approaching the door to her cell. She had been here for some days, but she was no longer sure just how many. The cell, although clean and vermin free, did not have a window, so she could not count the passage of days and nights. She had slept four times, so it had to be somewhere between three and five days. At least the Dark Knight had some honour, she thought ruefully. Although treated with rough hands at the time of her capture, she had to admit that she tried to fight. She still wore her gown, although it was rather the worse for wear. Wrinkled, stained and torn, it definitely could not be considered modest. Especially considering the rip up the right side that stretched from her ankle to just below her ribs, revealing at least a finger’s breadth of the lace that hemmed her corset. ...

“Guilty” “Guilty” “Guilty” “Guilty” Each in their turn, the twelve men stood. Each man in his turn uttered the same pronouncement. “Guilty” Loraleie could only look down at the rough-hewn planks of cedar beneath her bare feet. She could not avoid the sight of her wrists bound by the hard iron manacles, the short chain of 3 links between them. The charred-black of the rough worked iron weighed heavy on her wrists. Her linen shift was grey from past owners, and carried bits of the straw from her cell. ...