Someone who did not know the ways of elves might mistake the man lying still in the alcove with his eyes open and still for a fresh corpse.  In truth, Nym Liam was simply resting in the preferred fashion of his sylvan kin, in a meditative state of oneness with the world called the Reverie.<br/><br/>So subtly had whatever spirited him away come over him, that the elf had not stirred.  Slowly, though, the outer sensation of laying on stone—not a soft cloth stuffed with down—and the inner sensation of an unfamiliar spiritual landscape brought the sylvan elf out of his trance.<br/><br/>Nude and lathe with the musculature of a hunting cat and smooth skin like caramel, the wood elf stretched languidly.  Then his eyes luminescence ever so faintly butterscotch as he examined the paterns of stale air—soft flows of azure against the lines of chill sapphire walls.  The orange warmth of nearby torches drew his attention.  Nym Liam twisted around and observed the area around him.  Part of him went immediately ready to snap to his feet like an uncoiling serpent.  Huntsman's instincts kept him still and quite as he assessed his new surroundings with all five senses.  His eyes—catching visible light—slipped into that spectrum and sensed their glow.<br/><br/>After a few moments of getting his bearings, a particularly disturbing thought came to him.<br/><br/><em>Is something cutting me off from my magic?  Or are there just no growing things in range?</em><br/><br/>