Even under the current conditions, Mylanna tilts her head slightly to press a cheek to the gauntleted hand of the woman.  As the hand leaves her cheek, she closes her eyes, still shedding tears, feeling in her heart that this was it.  She makes no attempt at resistance, no attempt at fleeing... there was no place for her to go.  As she is stripped of her gear, she bites her lips, trying to clear her head of the scent and touch of the woman.  Even now, at her mercy and almost sword point, she wanted her in the worst way.  Her body responded, even under the circumstances, and Mylanna could do little about it.  She was left in her loose fitting shirt and baggy pants, held at her hips by a simple rope belt with a slipknot for easy removal.  The shirt lay over her breasts, doing nothing to conceal the large erect nipples beneath.<br/><br/>She does not cringe as the woman describes what other hunters had done with their lycanthrope captives.  Many were the beasts the hunters thought they were, but none deserved such inhuman treatment.  She had been reminded of this passing through a small town once... the remains of a human male hung from a charred stone pillar with a sign hung above it- werewolf.  She expected she would be viewed in the same light in a courtroom... if hatred of 'her kind' didn't bring common folk in to storm the cell and kill her before the trial.  Would they even believe or accept anything she said?  She doubted it highly.  Her only hope lay with the fairness of the High Lady of Silverymoon.<br/><br/>The teleport to the dungeons within Silverymoon caught her by surprise, as she new that normal teleport magics would not pass through the Mythal that surrounded the city, nor within it's borders.  Now she cringed, as the odor of the dungeon hit her like a wall, invading her nostrils with it's stench, a scent that even the woman's fragrance could not over power. The odor of decay and illness assaulted her senses the most, leaving her feeling ill to her stomach, her shoulders slumping, her expression falling.  It takes little more than a slight touch to guide her into the cell, already accepting her fate.  She sits, legs to her chest, her back to the cold stone wall, her head resting on her knees.