<em>F-fern?</em>The mental voice is awkward, thick, as though it was being 'spoken' through a mouth as dry as cotton.<em>Hard - to think - sorry...</em>Regret is heavy in the words, both for getting them to this point, and for then risking Adamion's anger.<br/><br/>She continues to watch the attendant over her shoulder.  The rod of what he holds looks too wide to fit where it was so obviously intended, and she feels her heart racing, but she stills to a mere tremor.  Fern's touch is comforting, both as the simple contact between equals and as the more insidious soothing of the ointment's demand for intimate touch.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, the health of the citrus potion filters into her veins.  She feels invigorated, even in her imprisonment.  She knows that if she weren't tied down, she could run forever, scale the cliff without her missing rope, and be far from Adamion before he could do anything.