I serve none.

Your voice comes quickly, easily, and powerfully, bright arcs of light punctuating the sounds. “I serve none.”

Reaching to his waist reflexively, the old man’s tired eyes suddenly widen and he reaches for his throat as if ****. He topples forward, a deadly wound having soaked his back red, less than a second before half of the others fall as well, backs stabbed or throats slit. There may not have ever been a quieter massacre.

The surviving half, eleven in number, knives and daggers in hand, drop to their knees around you, and as the remnants of life leave their victims, you can not only feel your bonds quickly fading, but your consciousness as well. Whatever **** has been keeping you here wavers, the flames below you flickering as you diminish by the second.

“Master,” a voice from among the supplicants speaks up, recognizable as the young woman who stood opposite the old man, “We cannot support your presence much longer. The host has been prepared.” Suspecting or perhaps knowing that you may not be fully aware as you fade, she indicates the red savage chained to the stone.