At first, Keleios thought that she must be dreaming. One moment, she had been sitting on the floor, in the ruins of what was essentially her bridal suite--her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest, and her body shaking with hysterical laughter--and the next thing she knew, she was somewhere else.
Her hands had been covering her face, wiping at involuntary tears of mingled stress and relief as she laughed herself silly, and there had been no disorienting sensation of a teleportation spell, so she hadn't noticed anything amiss until she was suddenly aware that the voices of her consort, Lothar; her sister, Methia; and the castle guards and staff who had just broken down the door--having heard the sound of the fight with the succu-bitch and thinking that Keleios and Lothor were trying to kill each other on their handfasting night--had suddenly gone quiet. And then all at once, she knew something was wrong.
She dropped her hands, reaching for the sword that lay across her lap, and glanced around the room--her pupils dilated, gaze diffuse to take in her surroundings. She was still in a castle, still sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, yet the room was unfamiliar. It was lavishly furnished; comfortably heated, but apparently empty save for herself. She stood and made a quick sweep of the room, opening doors and checking for any sign of either kidnappers, family, or company. She found neither--not even that imp, Groghe, that had taken to following her around like a lost puppy.
She had just flung open the main door and was about to step out into the hall when she felt a draft around her ankles and up around her bare legs. She glanced down a the billowing, gossamer nightgown she wore, and blushed crimson, retreating immediately into the chamber and slamming the door behind her. At least she wouldn't have to deal with Lothor tonight.
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keleios's journal
