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The morrigan
Magic wound itself through her, a sensation that was far from foreign in and of itself, but there was a wrongness to this. For it was not her own loom that wove the threads. She felt stiff, and yet electric all in the same breath. How embarrassing for one proclaimed witch to be undone by another's spell. Normal circumstances would have had her teasing, perhaps even offering the semblance of a slight chuckle, should the perpetrator be sitting right across from her. Perhaps she would have had some manner of confidence, a chance for some ruse or escape. Distraction could end this charade, concentration necessary requiem, but this. This absence had her blood running cold, an almost desperate feeling worming its way through herself. A rabbit caught in a snare with little to no way out, its legs immobile.

Trapped.
Caught.

For all of her knowledge of the arcane, she was little more than an insignificant fly ensnared in a web with no hope of fleeing. Her attention was pulled by the creaking of the door, of weight bidding it to open, signifying that she was no longer alone. Despite the way she wanted to twist her crown, to quit this cursed place, she was not permitted. Even the beryl of her eyes remained steadfast upon the table's less than polished surface.

Until those far away strings bid her rise like a mannequin, her puppeteer guiding her with astute accuracy and grace as she bowed. A charming curtsy that she would hold as it seemed her commander would await response from the guest she was still not permitted to view. The only certainty she had was that the one who held her prisoner was not one in the same with this one. Perhaps this had been the ill omen she'd foreseen. The one she had lamented to Morrigan over.