The wound went deep. To my pride, I suppose. Elves have a thing with pride. Even when you think you’ve gotten rid of it, it persists. I try my hardest. I’m certainly no Anrithen. But can I take pride in that?
The light coming in the cell isn’t natural. It’s too consistent to be sunlight, although I have no idea what direction my cell points in. A way of keeping you awake, perhaps. I’m coping well enough. The lack of mana’s starting to bite – indeed, it had been starting to bite when we reached Wor’var. Now it was more like having a foot gnawed off.
I stay in meditation most hours, trying to regulate my flow. The cell’s too suppressive to take anything from the lighting, or indeed to try chip away at the incantations keeping the cell suppressive. It’s like a miniaturised 7/7 party.
The blasted ring’s gone as well. If I’d had the forethought I would have hidden it somewhere decent – swallowed it, perhaps. Dragon technology will at least stump Highmaul for long enough to keep me alive.
The question is what happens when and if they figure out the ring. I’m no use as a gladiator, at any rate. I could end up in Maltinius’ posse – he’s certainly never had any elves before – but he seems to prefer the draenei.
I’m contemplating weaning myself off the magic at this rate. Goodness knows I’ve no idea when a rescue will come about, since Aleck stormed off. Khairan is… somewhere. That’s about it for potential rescuers.
Everyone is quiet. I don’t know if they’ve lost hope. I came to terms with death a fair while ago. I wouldn’t like to end up dead here, but I’m not going to be idealistic about it. Occasionally there’s screaming. I just try to meditate through it. The more mana I have… Well, I don’t really know what I’m going to do with it.