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.