It's a good thing Vlast's outstretched hands are bound. No one ever taught him not to just snatch what isn't his.

His fist closes around the stone.

The air crackles with the familiar spark of magic as he does... something to the stone.

(Corruption to some, connection to others; it depends on the outlook and intent. Not that he has much left in him to properly brand it, but even when that tool was in his arsenal, it was rarely employed. It just needs a little nudge to work as he needs it to and he can return it good as new.)

When he unfolds his fingers, the sending crystal hovers above his palm, having taken on an iridescent golden hue, imbued with what remains of Vlast's magic.

And then there is a voice (or rather a presence of one) that fills the silence of the cell, not dissimilar to the one that came out of Vlast's mouth earlier, but less broken and far more articulate.

(Angry, too, but when is he not...?)

Why have I been called here from my rest? Who are you ...people? Which master do you serve? What have you done to me?