Mercy Hall
A shrill whine grates on Mercy's last nerve. It's an odd sound, fowl, perchance. It's one she can't place, but it's nothing that a bow and a well-aimed arrow can't resolve.
Aye, fresh meat sounds good about now, she thinks to herself, still drifting in and out of sleep.
Another series of screeches douse any chance of slumber she has at the moment. Eyes opened, she concentrates on the corner of the room. Nothing looks remotely familiar.
The walls close in and swirl around her, and her stomach churns, turning sour bile over and over again.
She calls on the senses of her inner gargouille. Her ears perk as she listens to every noise, no matter how small or large, that crosses her path - the bird's annoying call, the chirp of crickets, and the soulful courting song of toads, no
