If she had the mental presence, the sharp-featured beauty might have wondered what the source of these illusions was. Were they manifestations of the whims of one or both of her captors? Or was the source external to the group - someone or something else that was causing this? And obviously she'd never consider herself as the source of the fuel for these decadent dreams. Suspect number one was always Dean, as he was the only one whose magic she couldn't quite understand. With sorcerers (as they called them in her homeland), it was fairly straightforward - don't get burned alive or turned into an icicle. But what she'd seen inside that burning house... that hadn't been normal magic. At least not any she'd seen before.<br/><br/>At least Donovan seemed as confused and possibly terrified as her. Stormy eyes kept fast on the man's booted feet, she powered after him as hard as she could in her present state of dress, which was not exactly conducive to sprints or battles, should it come to that. No doubt the mighty general looked silly in her blue doublet and soft leather booties (unpadded - she was basically running barefoot, something her feet would no doubt remind her of the next morning if they survived this), but anyone with enough experience would see hints and clues as to the powerful slender body beneath the outfit, the predatory grace with which she moved, and her easy speed in keeping up with the taller, slightly younger, far more muscled man in front of her. Tall for a woman from her homeland, she carried her strength in her luxuriously long-legged lower body and elegantly long torso, while muscled arms focused more on speed and precision. Those long legs bounded after her captor now, a mad dash to the main deck of the ship.<br/><br/>Spilling out of the door and into the outdoors, Methuseld stared with brief wonder and the newly "renovated" exterior of the ship, which seemed to stretch on for forever (at least relative to the old one). Otherworldly magic rocked the ship with gales and waves that made her dizzy, while a sudden downpour of rain pounded thunderously on the deck, the sails, and the persons. Within seconds Methuseld was wiping sticky-wet locks of drenched gold out of her face, furrowing her brows as she searched for Dean and found him manning the vaguely phallic wheel of the ship. All around him were enough sights as to comprise the nightmares of all the world's little children for a decade to come. Oddly tangible shadows danced around him, leering or growling or roaring out into the stormy night like mad hounds; others were far less real yet no less terrifying, popping in and out of sight - one minute here, the next there, the next right beside her - as lightning flashed off in the distance.<br/><br/>Jumping away in silent terror, closer to the only one of the pair that had a weapon, Methuseld couldn't help but feel a strong resentment towards Donovan for keeping her unarmed. But she couldn't focus on that for long - Dean was looking at them now, seemingly barely in control of himself (though why, she could not possibly comprehend), and shouting for Donovan to help him. The only help Methuseld could fathom was putting him out of his misery, and<em>quickly</em>. Which she let Donovan know immediately, with little thought or care as to the life of the shadow-man. "End this now!" She shouted through the overwhelming beating of rain on the new ship's fine wooden deck. "Put him out of his misery! Or I will!!!"