They were put in another tent. Old paper parchments were lying on one of the tables around the corner, orbs, books, and many other magical scripted devices on one of the cabinets (arrayed with symbols around the edges).
"Maker's tongue," Roldan gasped, looking at the magical devices. "They're Claims."
After taking the shackles off the elf, Faeranduhl's face bloomed with energy and blood. His lips turned red, skin became smooth as though a field of cotton. Roldan was pretty sure the elf had received more beatings than him, yet his skin was way smoother and fresher than him.
The elf shot a glare at Roldan and said: "You don't just shut your mouth do you?" He paused and went to the side and stood firmly. "First the elves, now the Makers? What Maker are you cursing?"
