[Cimmerian]

Aravelenon spread out his hands and began to chant in a long dead tongue, his voice invoking, commanding. The Crimson Sword, now mysteriously suspended itself in mid air, still glowing a sickly red aura. Aravelenon seemed to feed off the glow; its power appeared to course through his veins, building like a pleasure of taking a woman. Every instant prolonging made the pleasure even greater. Elanor’s body began to jerk and sway, she convulsed repeated. All her powers, energies and her very life seemed to drain away. The sorcerer reached out and held his open palm before Elanor’s flushed face. She was strong, but her fear made her unsure and indecisive. It would be a challenge for this evil sorcerer to break her. Yes, break her indeed. She would do his bidding or she would die by the blade of the Crimson Sword.

Already her rich, sweet blood, which he had lustfully savoured, had whetted the thirsty blade a while. But soon, it would need more. Aravelenon waved his thin arms up and down, and Elenor swayed like a bough in a summer breeze, in rhythmic step to the sorcerer’s hypnotic chant.

Aravelenon’s chant became more insistent even as the sword began to glow brighter and brighter. His minions and prisoners alike, whom he wished to have witness his power, moved back as one as the arcane syllables pierced their senses. They understood not a single word, but they all knew what they meant in the depths of their souls. Certain death.

Aravelenon’s voice grew no louder, yet his words seemed to shake the walls. Tapestries stirred as if at an unheard, unfelt wind. The glow from the Crimson Sword, suspended now directly over Elanor’s head, grew brighter, blindingly brighter.

Elanor’s near limp, trance-induced body shuddered violently like a leaf in a hurricane.

The end, it seemed, was near.