Deposited on the floor of Vlast's cell is the heap of rags and bony limbs formerly known as Teren von Skraedder, who has spent the last however-many-hours being rendered into this state for her trouble.

Blood drips from her mouth (not all of it hers) as her swollen eyes open into slits, focusing blearily on Vlast with a sort of distant appreciation; she coughs, and a bit more blood follows.

"Your horn," she remarks, slurring the words with cracked lips, "how far can you angle your head?" There's a glint of something ridiculous in her eye, almost like amusement, or like she's had some manner of deranged idea.