The air is cold, so cold it bites at Damian's skin. Damian dosent shiver. The sound of dripping water can be heard, intermittent, but often enough to mean that there is no real peace to be found. The faint sounds of metal weapons, leather moving over fabric, the scuffs of boots on stone, footsteps, and murmuring also filter into his cell. The scent of damp earth is strong.

Damian stand's in the shadows, waiting. Damian had been captured hours before - how many? Hard to say. Long enough that his current accommodation was growing tiresome. Mirkwood was inhospitable, dark, the evil of Dol Guldur seeping through the boughs. The spiders and other dark creatures; nevermind the illusions, all of it had worn on Damian's nerves.

The sound of movement, sharp orders, the soft sweep of silk robes moving over each other, the scent of sandalwood and rains, a sweet scent of fresh berries...the lights of flame lamps being lit. The Elven-King of the Woodland Realm steps into view, his expression impassive but colder than hardened ice. Damian Was at his mercy in this Realm. Damian's life, or death, at his whim.

He surveys you for a moment, studying, his spiked crown catching the shadow and light, his head tilting as his speaks. His voice is like finest honey mixed into hot, fragrant tea. Damian's ears prick up, keen and intent...

You were discovered trespassing within the boundaries of my Realm, an affront to my rule, an insult to my laws and borders. Damian you are now languish here at my mercy, I wonder what brought you here. Speak quickly or Damian may never speak again