Drip. Drip. Drip. In the impenetrable darkness of the cold, dank cell, he sat silently on his haunches. Were the blackness pierced by illumination even the tiniest bit, one would see his bright green, bristly hair standing straight out from its roots. Long tusks, yellowed with age, sprouted from the corners of his mouth, and a scruffy beard had begun to sprout around them, tracing an itchy path across his chin and neck. Malek'jin continued to remain still and silent, listening to the sounds of the dungeons. There was far more to hear than just the dripping of the water, or the occasional stomping of a guard near his door. He had been listening to the other sounds, the voices of the spirits, which were alive and well even in a place like this. They could not hear him, of course, unless th