Lavorra is restrained

She realises that she has been following Lorkan in the wrong direction, at the same time that she finds her booted feet stuck fast.

Lavorra looks down in fright, her eyes widening in panic: thick, sinuous vines have wrapped around her ankles, rooting her to the spot. She flails for a moment, wobbling, but the grip of the vines is so firm that it prevents her from falling.

“Lorkan!” She calls, trying to ease one leg at a time out of the vines’ grip, “Lorkan something’s got me. Help me!”

He stands some feet away, off to the side, feet planted firmly on a felled tree trunk, twisting vines probing. He swipes at one with a heavy knife, almost lazily, and the mass of creepers rattles in something like anger.

He meets her gaze, and she sees that those strong dark eyes have clouded over with a sickly purple. “I’m not going back to the Delwald, and neither are you. We avoided this place, damn creepers throttled two of my men a week ago, you see.”

He speaks with a cruel kind of mirth, his eyes following as the vines move with a sinister intelligence, slowly winding around Lavorra’s calves, then her knees.

“You - you knew! You led me here on purpose!” She gasps, squirming to no avail. She swings out with her shield, only for it to be caught by lashing plantlife, and torn from her grasp. More vines whip out, encircling her wrists and binding them tight together.

Lorkan looks her over one more time, his eyes lingering on her chest, where her bound arms have pushed her deep cleavage into an even tighter presentation.

“You were a good little whore you know.” He speaks with mocking venom, his voice sounding doubled, as though echoing in his own throat. “I’d have liked to try your other holes. Pity.”

The vines tighten around her knees, forcing her down. She notices for the first time, the vast, pink petalled flower ahead of her, growing from out of a bed of leaves and vines. It pulses, almost greedily, and the vines rustle.

A dozen images flash before her minds eye, chief amongst them, great man-sized pitcher plants of the Thessult jungle; corpse flowers in the Miracka fields.

I’m going to be eaten by a fucking flower.

Fear rushes in, the **** of it overwhelming her courage and wiping from her mind any plan or trick to aid her escape. “Please Lorkan” she begs, bright green eyes turning his way, “please don’t leave me like this. I saved your life at the camp. Please.”

But Lorkan is already gone. She is bound tight, and abandoned.

Lavorra looks back at the flower as it pulses again, and whimpers.