Twilight Falling

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The young Tymoran priest lay unconscious on his side, bound hand and foot with thick hemp rope. A purple bruise was already beginning to form around his left eye. Vraggen eyed him coldly.

"Get him up," Vraggen ordered his agents.

Dolgan, the big Cormyrean, slung his axe and kneeled at the captive's side. He took the priest's face in his ham hand and squeezed.

"Awaken," Dolgan said.

The priest groaned, but did not open his eyes.

"Well done," taunted Azriim. He stood beside Vraggen with a smirk on his dusky-skinned face. "Very creative."

Dolgan looked at the half-drow with his typically thick expression and grunted, "Huh?"

Azriim, dressed in the green finery and high boots that he favored, flashed a smile at Vraggen.

"He never gets the joke, does he?"

Vraggen made no reply. To Azriim, everything was a joke.

"I don't?" Dolgan asked, still dumbfounded.

"Wake him up," Vraggen said to the Cormyrean warrior.

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