Mabula nods and sits down with Ezrathell curling in between her legs where the most heat is radiating.  She whispers something only he can hear and he slips away under a heavy cover of cloths in a large wicker basket next to her chair.  Having not meant for him to be there, her eye followed him and lingered a moment on the fabric in the basket.  Her mind was truck with an idea; an awful, wonderful idea.  An idea she recalled had been used in an old tale she'd heard as a girl.  Though this time the prince would not become a swan, but be drained of energy.<br/><br/>Quickly she picked up her needle and went to the lower cabinet where she kept jars of strange herbs, roots, cloves and still even stranger things.  From the back she pulled a spool of golden thread.  Mabula never thought she would get a chance to use it, but it had come at last.  The Golden Fliece, pulled and spun from the Golden Ram of Argos oh so many centuries before.  She had come to posess it through a form of "inheritance".  Namely, taking it from people who weren't very careful with it after they stole it from someone else.<br/><br/>Returning to her seat, she held the index finger of her left hand aloft and spoke loud and clear. "Fliece of Gold, Fibers olde, with my blood, my will be done." With this, she pricked her finger and allowed the blood to fill the needle and trickle a little down the course of the fliece.  She shook the pain from her finger and began embroidering fanciful designs into the muslin cloth  It was large and wide, perfect for what she had planned.  She would make the embroidery, fold it to roughly the prince's size, cut the sleeves and make new ones with different cloth.  It would be a lovely tunic, one that none could resist.  Ezrathell watched with slitted eyes from the basket, bated breath in his long throat.