The chamber stank...<br/><br/>It was the bouquet of a dungeon, a rancid mix of mold, bodily fluids, and hopelessness. Hopelessness had it's own unique scent, subtlely nestled between the coppery tang of fear and the salty cloy of despair. To despair was something any soul might do in dark times, suffering the pain of this life until the desire to go on was lost. But there was still hope in despair, for there was a shining reward for the virtuous in the next life...<br/><br/>Hopelessness was a single step past despair... when even the glow of eternal reward in a new and glorious land had lost it's luster. Huddled in the corner of the room, bound by ragged roping that had the darkened hue of dried blood and rat leavings, was hopelessness. But the name she answered to was Viveca. Was Shannia relieved to see that the girl was still alive or... was it pity that filled her heart? Naked save for the filthy ropes that bound her, her breath was fearful and shallow, heaving in and out between her thin lips.<br/><br/>Taken from the small town cathedral of Dinaa, Viveca Dantrain was the novice chapelin and the eighteen year old choruster whose abduction had drawn the attention of the Crusaders and Lady Shannia by proxy. Indeed, the stories of Viveca's rise from her own unfortunate childhood were inspiration to the villagers. A child of the gallows, her mother a murderess, and her father an obscurity long vanished, she was born in the throes of her mother's death in the hangman's noose. A dark beginning to be sure, but even growing up in the small orphanage, she seemed to possess an inner light. The other children looked to her for guidance, and she took to her studies of the faith.<br/><br/>She wasn't a spectacular child, to be sure, frail and plain featured, she was no smarter then the other's, simply more driven to please. The only thing that stood out to the villagers was her voice, which was said to be lovely when raised in rejoice. It wasn't the story of a legend or a martyr, as Lady Shannia had heard many of those in the past. It was the story of a girl who was not blessed or gifted, but rather who had found a certain measure of happiness in devoting herself to her God and to others.<br/><br/>The same young woman who now shivered weakly on the grimy stone floor. Her status as a holywoman and her youth marking her as chaste, had likely drawn the attention of the cultists. There were few more prized sacrafices then one who brought light into the lives of others.<br/><br/>It took a moment for her to notice the light coming in from the doorway, and the silhouette of the paladin. But as she did, she scooted away as best she could, bound to tightly. Rocking back and forth like a madwoman, there was a moment in which she seemed to be hollow. The sort of empty shell that was left from those who had been broken spiritually and physically.<br/><br/>Yet soft as a whisper, Shannia could hear the words Viveca was mumbling under her breath, her eyes peering out from beneath her oily and untended hair. It was a simple prayer, of the sort children were taught to both praise their God and keep the unseen night terrors in their closet and under their bed.