...The more you follow the slave merchant into the dungeon, the more you find him repulsive. There's an air of pride in how he displays his total ignorance of the matter at hand, not to mention the terrible living condition that this place offers.

"We keep 'er locked up down 'ere to make sure she got no chance to escape. Ain't no way, methinks, but just in case... She'd be dangerous if she got out, my word."

You start to notice a rather unpleasant smell as you approach the cell you were looking for.

"I found 'er on a trip to the West, she was diggin' up a cemetery to find somethin' to chew on. I captured 'er, thought she looked pretty, but by the time I got back home she'd mauled one o' my crewmates. I couldn't bring 'er back o' course: another journey would've cost too much. But I couldn't just set 'er free either. Too risky."

You reach the cell. Looking inside, you can see a pile of iridescent black feathers and what looks like human remains. As the prisoners notices your presence, her wings unwrap, showing a rather beautiful, though very eerie feminine figure. Her hands are clawed, her eyes as black as obsidian, her skin pale like a cadaver's and bloodstained. The merchant keeps talking to you, but you're barely listening now: you never saw a creature like this in your years of study.

"She speaks a language that I don't get too well, but for what I can tell she used to be sum sorta shapeshifter, and could turn into a crow. Now she lost this ability. Got a spell wrong, methinks. Also she says she got a silver heart, be damned if I know what that means... Now I'm waitin' for somebody with... exotic tastes to buy 'er. I'm also offerin' a good price."

Your eyes dart at the merchant, and you feel you can't hold yourself back anymore.

"I am not here to buy a slave, trader. I find your profession to be abhorrent, and I am only here because I've been told you hold hostage a creature you don't comprehend. But that mention of a silver heart... That's typical of artificial servants in the West..."

You get close to the bars of the cell, speaking in a harsh, hissing tongue. Not many people would know it to this day, but you're aware that come of the more restrictive covens in the West still use it.

"Where is your master, little bird? What necromancer made you this way?"