Xylia

Xylia says nothing. She looks about her, barely listening to the pathetic sore-ridden man on the ground. Squinting in the light, she looks at the unchained people about her: a ferocious-looking man, a second man practicing a sort of magic that she's not entirely familiar with, and some sort of withered creature that has all the appearance of something that should be dead.

Necromancy, she guesses, looking at Tanthalas. She sniffs in disdain, as she considers that particular branch of magic uncouth.

Xylia ends up breathing in more of the foul odours of the diseased hall which sends a shiver of repulsion over her skin. She covers up her mouth and nose with the hem of her robe to block the smell.

She looks up at the rectangle in the ceiling --a trap door. She immediately starts going through the spells she studied that morning, searching for one that may get her out of this foul place.