Shadows 7.4 (I think)
Dec. 20th, 2006 12:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
measured_wordsI just typed this up but I did it on all kinds of fun cold meds, and now I'm going to bed. Please point out any glaring errors or incoherencies O_O
Preparing the Shrine was busy work. Geron had a lot to do ad to oversee. He would have liked to have one more mask before they took the village – a shame the woodsman had died so quickly. He didn’t want to give up Matteo either. He had invested so much into the Elf already. It would probably be overkill in any case, but he felt that three was an inauspicious number. But all they were really waiting for was for the processing facilities to be in order. They were nearly complete, even with the loss of Aresella, and Geron felt that he could spare time for his other projects.
He stopped to listen outside the thick iron doors of Matteo’s cell. Sometimes the Elf hummed to himself, and the sound could be heard, faintly, by anyone listening outside. These sounds were the only ones the prisoner heard, save for the shifting metal on metal of the little slot that swung back to reveal the basic sustenance they provided. It was designed not to admit any light when opened in order to enhance to isolating effects of the cell. Geron hadn’t designed it – it was part of the original structure, and centuries old – but he’d been keen to have it repaired once the Church had provided him with more resources. The feedings came at odd hours too, just to mix things up. Geron took his little pleasures where he could.
He took a sunrod instead of a torch, for the extra contrast the magnesium flare would produce in the dark room, and prepared his spell before he opened the door.
Geron was jolted when Matteo punched him in the jaw, but not phased enough to prevent him casting the Hold Person spell he’d prepared. The look of desperate frustration fixed on his subject’s face was gratifying, and the taste of blood in his mouth amusing. He knew he didn’t have much time, however, and set about fastening the restraints he’d brought. Once his arms and legs were cuffed to the iron spacer bars, he fed the attached chains through some ringbolts, pulling Matteo up against the wall.
As soon as he was able, the Elf was testing his bonds. Given time, he might well be able to escape. It might not even take him all that long if he were thinking more clearly but he was just one of those types who hated to admit defeat. And cocky too, to sneak into the Shrine. If he hadn’t been with that woodsman, who’d been drawn in so easily, it would have been much harder to track him down. Even with the alarms.
“Stop that, Matteo.” He turned to set the sunrod in a brace. “You know what would happen if you were to escape now. And am I not supposed to keep you alive?”
He half-hissed, half grunted in response, keeping his eyes averted from he brightness of the light. Geron could fairly feel the waves of hate radiating off him. Everything was going so well. He could bring Matteo’s suffering to maturity, continue to harvest his pain, and it would all serve to strengthen the Shrine and his Lord.
“But don’t worry. Today we’re going to try something new. You might even like it.” He smiled as he produced the syringe, and Matteo shrank back. There was so much you could do with needles. He wondered how much the Elf even remembered from his previous captivity. In this case the syringe was filled with a drug distilled from Matteo’s own pain. Geron was looking forward to the experiment. The drug itself worked on the premise that pain and pleasure were intrinsically linked, but he wanted to see just how far that connection could be pressed. Could you eliminate one person’s ability to fell either end of the scale? It was an exciting idea. He injected the drug directly into his subject’s neck, where it would take effect more quickly. His body relaxed, and geron waited until all signs of resistance disappeared.
“You see? Of course you do. Now… I am going to ask you some questions. And I’m not Saviya and I *will* know if you are lying to me.” The drug would weaken his resolve, and confound any other mental defenses he might try to employ. He was a spy, after all. He’d have some training. Geron took the extra efforts to increase the potency of his Detect Thoughts spell.
At first there was nothing but impressions of pleasure and relief from pain provided by the drug. Deeper in, however, was a voice screaming out to resist, trying to put together the defensive rotes developed to screen out such mental invasions. The training had surely never used as dangerous an aid as actual Agony however – the drug was incredibly expensive, and dangerously addictive. Matteo was far from weak-willed though – it was what made him a more interesting subject than the Southern girl he’d given to the Masks. Some swore that the pain of the innocents was the sweetest, but Geron preferred subjects who had a more complex understanding of what it could mean to truly suffer.
“How did you lie to Saviya?” he asked mostly out of curiosity. Lots of people lied under torture, and Geron didn’t generally find that, on its own, it was a very effective method of obtaining information. Few managed to lie so convincingly. Her inability to follow up on any of the information provided by the Elf had given as to the location and plans of the Loyalists forces had lost her a lot of standing with Church superiors. She’d been left in charge in Shinkyo but, at least for now, the action had all moved out of that theatre. She might have a chance to prove herself later, but for now she’d been left behind.
Matteo was trying to fight back, pushing his thoughts away from the question. He had, apparently, a very active imagination, and the drug encouraged some very wild fantasies.
“Saviya,” he repeated. “How did you lie to her?”
His question was rewarded with some rather lurid impressions of the austere red-haired priestess. Fantastic. Geron laughed. “Lie to her, not on her. Lie.” He waited, learning the quirks of his subject’s mind, how he tried to lose himself in pointless escapism, or bury his thoughts under Elven meditation exercises and litanies. Eventually, his imagination would betray him, or the drug would overwhelm his concentration. But it didn’t hurt to keep him off guard.
“Have you had any contact with the Loyalists?” This question was actually important. If the answer turned his Elf into a liability, however, he’d be highly disappointed.
The sudden change of attack on Matteo’s drug-addled concentration succeeded. A memory slipped though – hearing Volaris’s voice in his head. A Sending spell, used to communicate over long distances, received while he was convalescing at the lodge. He expected further contact. The thought was hopeful. That was probably how it slipped past his defenses: the drug heightened his perception of all positive sensations and emotions.
The Shrine mission was too important to jeopardize, but Geron was surprised at his own bitterness. He honestly enjoyed his service to the Church and the Crimson King. He didn’t seek personal advancement like Saviya and so many others in the hierarchy, nor did he nurture delusions that any greater power awaited him once their King was free and his kingdom restored. He had no illusions of what his fate would ultimately be, yet he was content to put his particular talents to use where his superiors thought best. He had no pretensions of special humility – he just knew his place. If he were one of the rare few who’d been twice blessed with their Lord’s power, he believed it was because of this lack of ambition. He asked very little in return, mostly to be left to his own devices…
He held his knife to Matteo’s face, pushing the tip up against his good eye.
“How long. How many days? Tell me me how many days, or I’ll kill you right now.”
In the wake of the drug and conflicting stimuli, Matteo’s mind was confused. Geron stepped back, sorting through the thoughts his subject could not. He wanted to lie, but he wasn’t honestly sure how long he’d been held captive this second time. He’d forgotten – no that was another lie. Eventually, searching even deeper, Geron found the answer. Volaris had given him a week to try and find more details of his location so that the Loyalists could bring him to their new location. This memory was part of a cast-away regret that Matteo hadn’t taken the High Wizard up on his offer of daily contact.
Good enough. They had three days, by his calculations. Two if he wanted to be safer. He could manage with two, though it would mean delaying the raid. The peasants weren’t going anywhere. And it would be easier to get answers out of the Elf tomorrow anyway, once his cravings for more Agony set in. Geron remained in control. He smiled. Maybe he would even learn how he’d lied so well. He left Matteo’s thoughts.
“And with such issues resolved, we turn to the matter at hand.” He traded his knife for a scalpel he’d sharpened earlier. Its edge was so fine its deepest cuts could scarcely be felt: a perfect beginning to today’s experiments in sensation. Where to begin? He’d left the Elf to pretty the last time. Would the woodsman have been so eager to save the live of someone whose mutilations were more aesthetically offensive? When he came back later, he’d bring some burning pitch, perhaps. For now he wanted to focus on more sensitive areas…
Preparing the Shrine was busy work. Geron had a lot to do ad to oversee. He would have liked to have one more mask before they took the village – a shame the woodsman had died so quickly. He didn’t want to give up Matteo either. He had invested so much into the Elf already. It would probably be overkill in any case, but he felt that three was an inauspicious number. But all they were really waiting for was for the processing facilities to be in order. They were nearly complete, even with the loss of Aresella, and Geron felt that he could spare time for his other projects.
He stopped to listen outside the thick iron doors of Matteo’s cell. Sometimes the Elf hummed to himself, and the sound could be heard, faintly, by anyone listening outside. These sounds were the only ones the prisoner heard, save for the shifting metal on metal of the little slot that swung back to reveal the basic sustenance they provided. It was designed not to admit any light when opened in order to enhance to isolating effects of the cell. Geron hadn’t designed it – it was part of the original structure, and centuries old – but he’d been keen to have it repaired once the Church had provided him with more resources. The feedings came at odd hours too, just to mix things up. Geron took his little pleasures where he could.
He took a sunrod instead of a torch, for the extra contrast the magnesium flare would produce in the dark room, and prepared his spell before he opened the door.
Geron was jolted when Matteo punched him in the jaw, but not phased enough to prevent him casting the Hold Person spell he’d prepared. The look of desperate frustration fixed on his subject’s face was gratifying, and the taste of blood in his mouth amusing. He knew he didn’t have much time, however, and set about fastening the restraints he’d brought. Once his arms and legs were cuffed to the iron spacer bars, he fed the attached chains through some ringbolts, pulling Matteo up against the wall.
As soon as he was able, the Elf was testing his bonds. Given time, he might well be able to escape. It might not even take him all that long if he were thinking more clearly but he was just one of those types who hated to admit defeat. And cocky too, to sneak into the Shrine. If he hadn’t been with that woodsman, who’d been drawn in so easily, it would have been much harder to track him down. Even with the alarms.
“Stop that, Matteo.” He turned to set the sunrod in a brace. “You know what would happen if you were to escape now. And am I not supposed to keep you alive?”
He half-hissed, half grunted in response, keeping his eyes averted from he brightness of the light. Geron could fairly feel the waves of hate radiating off him. Everything was going so well. He could bring Matteo’s suffering to maturity, continue to harvest his pain, and it would all serve to strengthen the Shrine and his Lord.
“But don’t worry. Today we’re going to try something new. You might even like it.” He smiled as he produced the syringe, and Matteo shrank back. There was so much you could do with needles. He wondered how much the Elf even remembered from his previous captivity. In this case the syringe was filled with a drug distilled from Matteo’s own pain. Geron was looking forward to the experiment. The drug itself worked on the premise that pain and pleasure were intrinsically linked, but he wanted to see just how far that connection could be pressed. Could you eliminate one person’s ability to fell either end of the scale? It was an exciting idea. He injected the drug directly into his subject’s neck, where it would take effect more quickly. His body relaxed, and geron waited until all signs of resistance disappeared.
“You see? Of course you do. Now… I am going to ask you some questions. And I’m not Saviya and I *will* know if you are lying to me.” The drug would weaken his resolve, and confound any other mental defenses he might try to employ. He was a spy, after all. He’d have some training. Geron took the extra efforts to increase the potency of his Detect Thoughts spell.
At first there was nothing but impressions of pleasure and relief from pain provided by the drug. Deeper in, however, was a voice screaming out to resist, trying to put together the defensive rotes developed to screen out such mental invasions. The training had surely never used as dangerous an aid as actual Agony however – the drug was incredibly expensive, and dangerously addictive. Matteo was far from weak-willed though – it was what made him a more interesting subject than the Southern girl he’d given to the Masks. Some swore that the pain of the innocents was the sweetest, but Geron preferred subjects who had a more complex understanding of what it could mean to truly suffer.
“How did you lie to Saviya?” he asked mostly out of curiosity. Lots of people lied under torture, and Geron didn’t generally find that, on its own, it was a very effective method of obtaining information. Few managed to lie so convincingly. Her inability to follow up on any of the information provided by the Elf had given as to the location and plans of the Loyalists forces had lost her a lot of standing with Church superiors. She’d been left in charge in Shinkyo but, at least for now, the action had all moved out of that theatre. She might have a chance to prove herself later, but for now she’d been left behind.
Matteo was trying to fight back, pushing his thoughts away from the question. He had, apparently, a very active imagination, and the drug encouraged some very wild fantasies.
“Saviya,” he repeated. “How did you lie to her?”
His question was rewarded with some rather lurid impressions of the austere red-haired priestess. Fantastic. Geron laughed. “Lie to her, not on her. Lie.” He waited, learning the quirks of his subject’s mind, how he tried to lose himself in pointless escapism, or bury his thoughts under Elven meditation exercises and litanies. Eventually, his imagination would betray him, or the drug would overwhelm his concentration. But it didn’t hurt to keep him off guard.
“Have you had any contact with the Loyalists?” This question was actually important. If the answer turned his Elf into a liability, however, he’d be highly disappointed.
The sudden change of attack on Matteo’s drug-addled concentration succeeded. A memory slipped though – hearing Volaris’s voice in his head. A Sending spell, used to communicate over long distances, received while he was convalescing at the lodge. He expected further contact. The thought was hopeful. That was probably how it slipped past his defenses: the drug heightened his perception of all positive sensations and emotions.
The Shrine mission was too important to jeopardize, but Geron was surprised at his own bitterness. He honestly enjoyed his service to the Church and the Crimson King. He didn’t seek personal advancement like Saviya and so many others in the hierarchy, nor did he nurture delusions that any greater power awaited him once their King was free and his kingdom restored. He had no illusions of what his fate would ultimately be, yet he was content to put his particular talents to use where his superiors thought best. He had no pretensions of special humility – he just knew his place. If he were one of the rare few who’d been twice blessed with their Lord’s power, he believed it was because of this lack of ambition. He asked very little in return, mostly to be left to his own devices…
He held his knife to Matteo’s face, pushing the tip up against his good eye.
“How long. How many days? Tell me me how many days, or I’ll kill you right now.”
In the wake of the drug and conflicting stimuli, Matteo’s mind was confused. Geron stepped back, sorting through the thoughts his subject could not. He wanted to lie, but he wasn’t honestly sure how long he’d been held captive this second time. He’d forgotten – no that was another lie. Eventually, searching even deeper, Geron found the answer. Volaris had given him a week to try and find more details of his location so that the Loyalists could bring him to their new location. This memory was part of a cast-away regret that Matteo hadn’t taken the High Wizard up on his offer of daily contact.
Good enough. They had three days, by his calculations. Two if he wanted to be safer. He could manage with two, though it would mean delaying the raid. The peasants weren’t going anywhere. And it would be easier to get answers out of the Elf tomorrow anyway, once his cravings for more Agony set in. Geron remained in control. He smiled. Maybe he would even learn how he’d lied so well. He left Matteo’s thoughts.
“And with such issues resolved, we turn to the matter at hand.” He traded his knife for a scalpel he’d sharpened earlier. Its edge was so fine its deepest cuts could scarcely be felt: a perfect beginning to today’s experiments in sensation. Where to begin? He’d left the Elf to pretty the last time. Would the woodsman have been so eager to save the live of someone whose mutilations were more aesthetically offensive? When he came back later, he’d bring some burning pitch, perhaps. For now he wanted to focus on more sensitive areas…
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Date: 2006-12-20 01:24 pm (UTC)