Randal
12-11-12, 11:10 PM
(Solo. Paricipating in The 2012 Holiday Incentive (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?24999-The-Chronicle-12-9-––-Holiday-Incentive!&p=203726#post203726).)
A faint flicker of light danced in Randal's hazy vision as he recovered, bloodied spittle dribbling down his lips. As the two swarthy gaolers who held him by either arm forced him back to his feet, his vision swam and the cell around him began to dance. The excruciating pain that ran through his body like a hot iron made him want to retch. His squashed nose was crushed to a pulp courtesy of a Mister Irving, one of Baron Finnigan's men. Randal's blood, sweat and the tears that he had shed out of the savage beating inflicted upon him ran down his face and into his eyes, blinding him. He had dozens of meticulously open cuts and deep, purple bruises that scored his bronzed flesh that stood testament of Coronian hospitality, but still he said nothing. As a hand reached for his chin and wrenched his face upward, Randal held his ground and remained silent.
"Where are the others?" A calm, pensive voice asked again, in a tone that almost sounded bored. The face of his interrogator obscured by his clouded vision, Randal knew who it was.
Again, he said nothing.
Precious seconds passed quickly before Randal heard an exasperated sigh and felt the side of Mister Irving's hand land against his cheek, knocking blood and a molar that had been hanging loose out of his mouth. A hand grabbed his chin and pulled it upwards to where Randal caught the sickly sweet smell of red wine and it was everything he could do from not vomiting right then and there. As he felt his chin being held, Randal could hear the sound of Irving digging into his pocket to fetch something. The tribal wondered fleetingly if it was the knife he had been searching for to end his miserable existence. Feeling death brush against his neck, tickling his carotid artery, Randal prepared himself in seconds when he heard Irving spit into something and then a cloth rubbed gently against his closed eyes, wiping them free.
"There now. What kind of man would speak to his captor when he cannot even see him." Irving said as he inspected his handiwork, turning his face in odd directions. "Open your eyes, savage."
The shadowy face of the gaunt, bald man who had tortured Randal for days swam into view, his face dancing in the torchlight. Irving's face was gaunt with neatly clipped graying lamp chops connecting to his receding iron coloured hairline. An alquiline nose, typical of a Coronian stretched down his long and narrow face as he pursed his lips. Chilling blue eyes stared at him, resting under a brow that cast a permanent shadow upon his face. Mister Irving, a tall white Coronian who answered to the baron's beck and call was unnerving to be around. That lack of emotion. That pensive stare as if he were looking not at a man, but into him and weighing his character. Mister Irving was dressed in the garb of a noble, or at least a man who served one. Tailored trousers, pointed Radasanthian shoes, Argyle socks, suspenders that hung from either side and a simple undershirt that was blotted in Randal's blood. A fourth man, a cripple Irving simply referred to as 'Boy' held his neatly folded starched white buttoned shirt and vest in his arms. To Mister Irving, all the little details mattered.
Watching Randal take in his features, Mister Irving smiled and released his grip upon his captive's chin and stepped back, his giant, sinewy arms extended, "Like what you see, savage? I suppose it is more than you can afford, but who could blame a poacher?"
Randal looked down at the man's strange shoes and spat at the ground. Looking up, he said nothing.
Moving around the gaolers who held the man on his feet, Mister Irving let the flash of steel glimmer as he pulled something else from his pocket. Before clumsy, slow thoughts of what it could be bubbled into Randal's head, Irving grabbed him by the neck and slid the dull side of a straight razor flat against his mouth and upward until it pressed against the septum of Randal's broken nose. With delicate care, Irving pressed upward and waited for the result as Randal let out a shrill, bellowing scream.
"Yes, that's it!" Irving called out gleefully as he applied more pressure, "Finally he says something!"
Slow, agonizing seconds pass until finally Randal's interrogator lets up, the razor flicking out of view. Randal could feel the hot breath of his captor against his right ear as he began to whisper to him, "You were not alone that night my men ran you down after you killed the baron's game. There were more of you who took off into the darkness and retreated into the foothills. My men have combed the area and found nothing else but tracks that ended at the river that separates the Baron's lands from the countryside."
"S-So what?" Randal forced through clenched teeth, his consciousness dipping in and out as the pain caused him to waver.
"So..." Mister Irving said as he placed the dull razor on his face and brought it up millimeters from Randal's nostrils, causing him to violently flinch, "As I've explained to you for days now.. you poached in the wrong property. Baron Finnigan does not like his game taken by outsiders and while we have you, I want the others."
"Y-You'll never have them." Randal forced through lips, fear beginning to run up his spine.
Mister Irving must have been able to have sensed it because he cocked his head and stared at his captive for several long seconds. Sweetly, the interrogator asked, "Savage, what is the crime for poaching upon Baron Finnigan's lands? And don't be smart."
"Stone or Blade." Randal breathed with creeping fear.
"Why?" Mister Irving said flatly, commanding him to answer.
"T-to c-crush your ha..hand s-so that. . so that you may never p-pa-pa-poach again or.. or.. " Randal wheezed, finding the words dribbling from his mouth beginning to fall out of his control.
"Or?"
"Or.. or to be h-h-hamstrung so that y-y-you might n-n-never run from the Baron's law again." Randal forced from his lips with all of his strength, his mind reeling.
"Good." Mister Irving said as he nodded with approval, removing the razor from Randal's face. "It seems my words have not fallen on deaf ears these last few days. But allow me to explain why you are given the choice between the Stone or the Blade. Baron Finnigan is a Christian. And Christian men do not execute their prisoners. It might be difficult for a savage like you to understand, I know, but our Baron cannot stand the sight of blood, and finds death.. unappealing. Therefore. . he gives you a choice, you see?"
Moving back and around Randal until he came back into view, Mister Irving bowed down until their eyes were level, his hands on either knee, as if he were addressing a petulant child, "Baron Finnigan and his court might think he is being merciful, allowing you the choice of how you would like to be crippled. But we both know the difference, don't we?" Waiting for Randal to slowly nod, Irving continued, "We know that a Christian's mercy, even for a poacher, just might be the cruelest thing of all."
"Boy." Mister Irving commanded as he snapped his fingers, the cripple moving into view and handing Randal's interrogator his remaining clothes. The cripple moved meekly out of view as Irving began to turn his gaze upon him, feeling as if he had lingered too long. Pulling off his stained undershirt, he wiped the blood from his face, arms and chest before throwing it at the cripple and donning his clothing once again.
"So." Mister Irving said as he tucked his long shirt back into his trousers and began to button them, "I want those names. Death will not find you here, and if you do not give me the identities of your cohorts before your visit with the Baron, I will make you wish it had. I will give you the rest of the evening and tomorrow to weigh it carefully before I ask you again."
Turning his attention to the gaolers, the interrogator ordered them to release him, and when the silent, swarthy brutes let go of either arm, Randal's feet gave out from underneath and he collapsed onto the cold, stone floor. As the feeling of sweet black sleep began to swim into view, Randal heard his gaolers open the door and retreat outside along with the cripple, but Mister Irving lingered a little longer, staring at his handiwork. When he had had his fill, the Baron's man spoke with words that would haunt Randal in his dreams and for days after, "Think upon what I said, savage. Do not disappoint me."
With that, Mister Irving exited the cell as one of the gaolers remained behind to pull the creaking cell door shut and turned the key with a resounding clank from the lock. Soon his footsteps retreated down the hall and into the dungeon beyond until Randal was alone.
Well, not quite.
A faint flicker of light danced in Randal's hazy vision as he recovered, bloodied spittle dribbling down his lips. As the two swarthy gaolers who held him by either arm forced him back to his feet, his vision swam and the cell around him began to dance. The excruciating pain that ran through his body like a hot iron made him want to retch. His squashed nose was crushed to a pulp courtesy of a Mister Irving, one of Baron Finnigan's men. Randal's blood, sweat and the tears that he had shed out of the savage beating inflicted upon him ran down his face and into his eyes, blinding him. He had dozens of meticulously open cuts and deep, purple bruises that scored his bronzed flesh that stood testament of Coronian hospitality, but still he said nothing. As a hand reached for his chin and wrenched his face upward, Randal held his ground and remained silent.
"Where are the others?" A calm, pensive voice asked again, in a tone that almost sounded bored. The face of his interrogator obscured by his clouded vision, Randal knew who it was.
Again, he said nothing.
Precious seconds passed quickly before Randal heard an exasperated sigh and felt the side of Mister Irving's hand land against his cheek, knocking blood and a molar that had been hanging loose out of his mouth. A hand grabbed his chin and pulled it upwards to where Randal caught the sickly sweet smell of red wine and it was everything he could do from not vomiting right then and there. As he felt his chin being held, Randal could hear the sound of Irving digging into his pocket to fetch something. The tribal wondered fleetingly if it was the knife he had been searching for to end his miserable existence. Feeling death brush against his neck, tickling his carotid artery, Randal prepared himself in seconds when he heard Irving spit into something and then a cloth rubbed gently against his closed eyes, wiping them free.
"There now. What kind of man would speak to his captor when he cannot even see him." Irving said as he inspected his handiwork, turning his face in odd directions. "Open your eyes, savage."
The shadowy face of the gaunt, bald man who had tortured Randal for days swam into view, his face dancing in the torchlight. Irving's face was gaunt with neatly clipped graying lamp chops connecting to his receding iron coloured hairline. An alquiline nose, typical of a Coronian stretched down his long and narrow face as he pursed his lips. Chilling blue eyes stared at him, resting under a brow that cast a permanent shadow upon his face. Mister Irving, a tall white Coronian who answered to the baron's beck and call was unnerving to be around. That lack of emotion. That pensive stare as if he were looking not at a man, but into him and weighing his character. Mister Irving was dressed in the garb of a noble, or at least a man who served one. Tailored trousers, pointed Radasanthian shoes, Argyle socks, suspenders that hung from either side and a simple undershirt that was blotted in Randal's blood. A fourth man, a cripple Irving simply referred to as 'Boy' held his neatly folded starched white buttoned shirt and vest in his arms. To Mister Irving, all the little details mattered.
Watching Randal take in his features, Mister Irving smiled and released his grip upon his captive's chin and stepped back, his giant, sinewy arms extended, "Like what you see, savage? I suppose it is more than you can afford, but who could blame a poacher?"
Randal looked down at the man's strange shoes and spat at the ground. Looking up, he said nothing.
Moving around the gaolers who held the man on his feet, Mister Irving let the flash of steel glimmer as he pulled something else from his pocket. Before clumsy, slow thoughts of what it could be bubbled into Randal's head, Irving grabbed him by the neck and slid the dull side of a straight razor flat against his mouth and upward until it pressed against the septum of Randal's broken nose. With delicate care, Irving pressed upward and waited for the result as Randal let out a shrill, bellowing scream.
"Yes, that's it!" Irving called out gleefully as he applied more pressure, "Finally he says something!"
Slow, agonizing seconds pass until finally Randal's interrogator lets up, the razor flicking out of view. Randal could feel the hot breath of his captor against his right ear as he began to whisper to him, "You were not alone that night my men ran you down after you killed the baron's game. There were more of you who took off into the darkness and retreated into the foothills. My men have combed the area and found nothing else but tracks that ended at the river that separates the Baron's lands from the countryside."
"S-So what?" Randal forced through clenched teeth, his consciousness dipping in and out as the pain caused him to waver.
"So..." Mister Irving said as he placed the dull razor on his face and brought it up millimeters from Randal's nostrils, causing him to violently flinch, "As I've explained to you for days now.. you poached in the wrong property. Baron Finnigan does not like his game taken by outsiders and while we have you, I want the others."
"Y-You'll never have them." Randal forced through lips, fear beginning to run up his spine.
Mister Irving must have been able to have sensed it because he cocked his head and stared at his captive for several long seconds. Sweetly, the interrogator asked, "Savage, what is the crime for poaching upon Baron Finnigan's lands? And don't be smart."
"Stone or Blade." Randal breathed with creeping fear.
"Why?" Mister Irving said flatly, commanding him to answer.
"T-to c-crush your ha..hand s-so that. . so that you may never p-pa-pa-poach again or.. or.. " Randal wheezed, finding the words dribbling from his mouth beginning to fall out of his control.
"Or?"
"Or.. or to be h-h-hamstrung so that y-y-you might n-n-never run from the Baron's law again." Randal forced from his lips with all of his strength, his mind reeling.
"Good." Mister Irving said as he nodded with approval, removing the razor from Randal's face. "It seems my words have not fallen on deaf ears these last few days. But allow me to explain why you are given the choice between the Stone or the Blade. Baron Finnigan is a Christian. And Christian men do not execute their prisoners. It might be difficult for a savage like you to understand, I know, but our Baron cannot stand the sight of blood, and finds death.. unappealing. Therefore. . he gives you a choice, you see?"
Moving back and around Randal until he came back into view, Mister Irving bowed down until their eyes were level, his hands on either knee, as if he were addressing a petulant child, "Baron Finnigan and his court might think he is being merciful, allowing you the choice of how you would like to be crippled. But we both know the difference, don't we?" Waiting for Randal to slowly nod, Irving continued, "We know that a Christian's mercy, even for a poacher, just might be the cruelest thing of all."
"Boy." Mister Irving commanded as he snapped his fingers, the cripple moving into view and handing Randal's interrogator his remaining clothes. The cripple moved meekly out of view as Irving began to turn his gaze upon him, feeling as if he had lingered too long. Pulling off his stained undershirt, he wiped the blood from his face, arms and chest before throwing it at the cripple and donning his clothing once again.
"So." Mister Irving said as he tucked his long shirt back into his trousers and began to button them, "I want those names. Death will not find you here, and if you do not give me the identities of your cohorts before your visit with the Baron, I will make you wish it had. I will give you the rest of the evening and tomorrow to weigh it carefully before I ask you again."
Turning his attention to the gaolers, the interrogator ordered them to release him, and when the silent, swarthy brutes let go of either arm, Randal's feet gave out from underneath and he collapsed onto the cold, stone floor. As the feeling of sweet black sleep began to swim into view, Randal heard his gaolers open the door and retreat outside along with the cripple, but Mister Irving lingered a little longer, staring at his handiwork. When he had had his fill, the Baron's man spoke with words that would haunt Randal in his dreams and for days after, "Think upon what I said, savage. Do not disappoint me."
With that, Mister Irving exited the cell as one of the gaolers remained behind to pull the creaking cell door shut and turned the key with a resounding clank from the lock. Soon his footsteps retreated down the hall and into the dungeon beyond until Randal was alone.
Well, not quite.