#dunerover.

Angry wouldn't begin to describe the torrent of emotion bubbling within her. Of course no one had come forth and claimed accountability yet. Whether it be a mishap of druidic magic from Jaheira, or a stray bolt of magic slung from Gale's staff, the crew had a lot of explaining to do.

And Shadowheart had no say in the matter. Literally! She couldn't speak! (and no one had volunteered to be the translator...)

The tiny, umber fish swam in frantic circles, slamming her body against the glass of her bowl; a temporary prison until matters were sorted out. Or until this curse decided to fade away on its own.

It could be promised that had she full control of her vocal mechanisms, Zandi would be treated to a vast array of very nasty words.

He wasn't being covert. She heard each puff of hot air that snuffed out his exhales, and every gurgle that groaned out his gut. One couldn't tell she was even aware. As still as stone and flawlessly composed. Eyes were closed, and her breathing rode that slow, consistent rhythm. Her meditation had ended a while ago, but she always dragged them out. Most in camp knew not to bother her, and she loved not being bothered.

Most knew, but apparently not all.

Her hand shot out, snatching his wrist and squeezing with just enough strength to sow caution. Eyelids snapped up and he's staring straight down those deadly paths paved in jade.