Faedryl Melad
Drow Hexblade/Evoker
AC: 12 HP: 22/22
PP: 12 PIv: 14 PIs: 12 Sanity: 11
Conditions: Exhaustion (1)
Concentrating: --
Seventh Day, Cell

The half-bloods knew each other. Well, she shouldn't be too surprised by that. Birds of a feather. Faedryl sucks in air in displeasure as the myconid unleashes another wave of spores on them. She didn't trust anything that forced its way into her head. Grimoires, nightmares or mushrooms, they were all the same to her. She couldn't deny that it made sense to continue the conversation silently though, much as she disagreed with the manner in which it was prompted. "Faedryl Melad, Fifth Daughter and Eighth Child of Matriarch Ahlysra Melad. Once a rising star, now on my way to the capital for execution as an example. Or I would be, if we weren't all going to escape." She speaks back telepathically, her tone clearly lacking in any pride in her titles at this point, instead they're delivered with a sardonic tone of criticism. Faedryl looks around the collected prisoners. It might be enough. It might not be. But the mushroom was correct - they were only due to get weaker the longer they stayed, or risk some being thrown to the ooze to 'free up space'.

"If we're doing this, we should do it when we're at our strongest. Tomorrow, after the work shift?" It's a question, not an order. She shifts in her 'seat' on the floor. If they wanted to start this right, Duskryn's 'open door' would be needed, so she'd need to get the message to him somehow. On slightly wobbly legs she stands, looking out the door's small opening to see if she can spot the Priestess-hating 'traitor'.

Sarith Kzerkarit
Drow Fighter/Rogue
AC: 14/16 HP: 23/23
PP: 14 PIv: 11 PIs: 10 Sanity: 8
Conditions: --
Concentrating: --


Seventh Day, Cell

Sarith keeps his mouth - and mind - shut at Faedryl's suggestion of escape tomorrow. They were really still going for this, despite everything. They really believed they'd make it out of an entire drow outpost with nothing more than a few scavenged 'weapons', if they could even be called that, against an organised drow force lead by priestesses? With quaggoth support? Foolishness. He thinks, for a moment, about selling them out, telling the guards of the ill-conceived attempt and thwarting it before it starts. No, it wouldn't help. A traitor once, a traitor still. It wouldn't gain him any reprieve from his end. He should let it play out, watch them all fail, and let the encroaching storm of death wash over him. It was his only choice at this stage.