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Dark, dank, and decidedly chilly.  That was the best way to describe the place I found myself in.

A dungeon.  Droplets of moisture dripped around the chains and manacles that hung from the walls.

I was not a permanent occupant; I’d come to give succor and hopefully devise an escape plan for one of my people.  As yet, his jailers think him a warlock, but given time they may well discover his shapeshifting qualities.  An unfortunate consequence for all of my kind.

Elizabethan England is not hospitable for a were panther.  Not even for me, the king of my race.

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