Captured by the Dark Lord by Jaide Fox Page A

into the skirts of her petticoats.  A miniature
painting of her beloved mama and papa were tucked down the bodice of her
chemise and the ring they'd bestowed upon her, never left her finger.  In
company, she often hid her right hand in her skirts so as not to attract
attention to it.  For even though she could change her appearance at will, for
some reason, the ring stayed no matter what form she took. 
                Having gathered
all her things together, Isabeau quietly crept out of the ale house in which
she had paid over the odds to sleep in a single chamber.  It seemed a shame to
depart so early in the night and a waste of good money to boot, but she had
little choice.  Her instincts were screaming at her and to ignore them could
mean...
                She pursed her
lips together and closed her eyes to deny what she knew to be fact.  That
whoever had murdered her parents, whoever had set their house alight and
allowed them to burn to their deaths, was now on her tail and had been for the
last four years.
                Exhaling roughly,
Isabeau grimly exited the ale house as silently as she possibly could.  The
less attention she garnered the better.  For even though it was the early hours
of the night, her senses told her that of the twenty inhabitants, at least five
of them were in a state of wakefulness.  Any abrupt and strange noises could
bring about an investigation on their parts and that would never do.  For the
last few years, discretion had been her watchword and she was certain, that
that was the reason for her continued safety. 
                How she knew
there were twenty people staying in the inn and how she knew that five of them
were awake, was simply one of those things that she had soon learned to
accept.  It was added to the fact that if she was injured, she could heal
herself.  And if she wanted to, then she could change her appearance. 
                Her abilities
were a mystery to her but with the life she led, they were her only security. 
Without them, she would more than likely have died days after her parents'
death.  Sixteen, she had been.  Old enough to be wed in the eyes of the law,
but she had been raised differently than other girls.  She had been a young
sixteen and the aftermath of losing her parents had been the most difficult
time of her life. 
                To this day, she
was unsure as to how she'd coped.  How she had survived.  She could believe
that she was, just that, a survivor.  Someone, who despite the odds, despite
the fact that everything was against her, wanted to live and would do anything
physically and magically possible to do so. 
                The ring ...was
something she kept close at all times as it was her mother's.  A part of her
was unsure of its power, yet another part was certain that something inside her
soul triggered its magic.  Once, a few terrible months after the death of her
mama and papa, a beggar had attempted to rip it from her hand.  As soon as the
gold and onyx had touched the man's flesh, terrible screams had escaped his
throat and he had grabbed his hand back and nursed it against his chest, like a
mother would a suckling babe.  He had soon run off and left her to herself. 
                That experience
made her believe that while the ring reacted in unnerving and miraculous ways
whilst sat upon her hand, it couldn't on another's. 
                What that made
her, she didn't know.
                A part of her
wondered if that was why she was constantly running from place to place. 
Attempting to outrun the knowledge of what she actually was. 
                Perhaps she was
wrong, perchance her constant flight from danger was for some other reason, but
the simple villagers of her home town had never treated witches with any
kindness.  There were documented papers, which explored the dunking of
countless, simple