<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c4/a2/eb/c4a2eb3622a5fd5f4149b8e094a22fa3.jpg)</div><strong>Name: </strong>Danae Vine-Lott (https://www.dndbeyond.com/characters/13428552/mqOlTT)<br/><strong>Location: </strong>Island docks<br/><strong>Wearing: </strong>Grey hemp blouse, navy blue felt breeches, leather boots<br/><strong>Content: </strong>Planing<br/><strong>Tagging: </strong>Open<br/><br/>She went up to the gates, foreboding as they were, and felt a tinge of unease overcome her.  The place radiated a certain nondescript malice.  It was poisonous, corrosive.  The soldier in her told her not to proceed further without good reconnaissance.  In her troubled sleep she had enough time to grapple with disembodied voices and images.  To be in this place, seemingly drawn against her will like a fly in a spider's web, stirred up those echoes once again.<br/><br/>"I am told not much healing goes on in such places.  Lunacy is riven into the mind; the brain, like the body, is dross.  Prone to corruption.  The soul, too, I suppose, by things like witchcraft." She tested the blackened iron of the gates with her hands." She paused to contemplate her companions' assessments of their situation, "A curious thing to bring us out here, but leave the gate shut."<br/><br/>She called out into the passage, hoping to seize the attention of some remiss groundskeeper who had neglected to make preparations for the arrival of guests, and rapped her knuckles against the metal.  "Madame Lorimer is quite right.  We cannot abandon our fellow passengers.  I would not wish it upon anyone to be an inmate in such a place."  She drew the fey shortsword Faelyn had lent her, and clanged the pommel against the ornamental wrought iron.  "It's either this, or trying to pick the lock and in that field I have no knowledge."