An uncounted span of time passes before the door is opened. The owner walks in, as greasy and hand-wringingly obsequious as always, followed by a large, saturnine-looking man in elabourate robes that mark him as some kind of occultist.

"In here, Lord Azwel," the owner simpers. "You must be very powerful indeed, to take on this one. She killed two of my guards, you know."

"Yes, I know," the other answers, his cultured tenor voice, strangely at odds with his large and intimidating appearance, laced with strained patience. "You mentioned it before. Repeatedly."

"Yes, of course, Lord Azwel. My apologies."

They arrive at the door and, in better light, the lines of ritual scarring can be seen on this 'Lord Azwel's face. His long, dark hair and beard turn out a deep shade of purple. The robes are embellished with golden jewellery, a golden circlet sits in his hair, and elabourate golden gauntlets cover his hands.

"The greatest of precautions have been taken with this one, my Lord, as you can see by the silver manacles--" He breaks off as Lord Azwel steps forward, looming over him.

"Open the door. And hand her over. Do not test test my patience further."

The small, weaselly man quickly produces keys and opens the door, swinging it wide so that his customer can step into the cell.