It was hard to tell if the pain in his head was from a blow or the fall. Azaryne could still taste the bitter flavor of sleeping magic on his tongue, but it was impossible to determine the source.
Taking inventory of his body, he realized that his hands were carefully bound together by thick rope. There was barely enough room to keep from stopping circulation, and certainly no opportunity to wriggle free. His cheek was pressed against a cold, musty smelling surface. As his vision came into focus, he realized he was lying on a cobbled stone floor.
Memories swam through his mind groggily as he fought to remember where he was-- or at least where he had been the last time he was conscious. He could hear a girl’s voice… The clashing of steel…
"Oh, come on Meril!" Eralane shouted.
"Take it easy." He said to Eralane, stepping away from his own archery target and toward the sparring pair. "This is his first real training session. Don't you remember when you were 15?