xxxxxxx35th of Spring, 514
The poisoner knew he'd made a mistake. It was only to determine how serious it would turn out to be. He trudged across the open land along the shore of Lake Ravok. He hurt everywhere, the Ebonstryfe had seen to that. His horse kept the pain from his legs and ankles, where they'd been beaten and twisted to the point of breaking. But sitting atop the creature brought agony up his spine, from the racking he'd received, with every sway of the horse's gait.
His wrenched fingers found it difficult to hold onto the reins with a strong enough grip to be of any difference if he was to lose his balance. He'd topple over if he tried to look behind him. It felt as if every muscle in his body had been pulled; every bone bruised; every joint hyper-extended.
But he hadn't talked. Not until he wanted to anyway. And the interrogators had been impressed. He'd kept to his story as they questioned his inexplicable appearance in a house they'd had under surveillance. Stricken both by drink and poison, he'd stuck to his claim of a dalliance with a woman met at the Silver Sliver, and a covert entry by a back entry below street level.
The fact was, he had poisoned himself when he realized he'd been set-up. There was no need for him to fake such a condition. His daily work with toxins had made him quite resilient to their influence. This included alcohol. His affinity for enduring pain, coupled with his acting, made him a difficult subject to break under questioning. It took a truly accomplished eye to tell when his screams and begging were not genuine.
But his semi-contradictory stories brought about a reversal of roles. The interrogators yelled and threatened, filling in the blanks with details meant to trip HIM up and reveal his fallacies. Instead, they revealed the details HE hadn't previously known. The Ebonstryfe hadn't been the ones keeping the estate under surveillance. They had wanted to know who was.
Once they gave up on Inoadar, thinking they'd wrung nothing but a consistent account of events leading nowhere, he'd resumed his poise and confidence and gave up the name of the girl who'd sold him out. "Bellarhy Rieade." He was not so much angry at her. Betrayal was a constant element of Ravokian life. He was mad at himself for allowing himself to be duped.
The inquisitors had been shocked. But now Inoadar gave up every bit of information he had. He did it willingly, with a smile on his face. They didn't even need to press him for it. It was a matter of pride for him. Not only to see how long he could last, but to let them know they hadn't broken him. He was a loyal citizen and a capable asset. He wanted them to know it. And only now did he give them his name, or at least the one they knew him by...
"Nolan Parnell"
It had been a while since he'd tested himself against the professional application of pain. But the cross-referencing of files led them to realize this subject had been questioned and released under similar situations before.
But that was days ago. Now his purpose was the collecting of herbs and fungus for toxins. He'd been kind of eager to test his growing knowledge of arboreal types now as well. He'd been exchanging knowledge with Verin Rush for a short while now. He felt he was giving a bit more than he got, since he was sharing knowledge of the uses of advanced equipment as well, but he wasn't going to begrudge the bonus.
He'd come to realize some of the connections between the presence of arboreal toxins within the trees and the presence of fungi without. In some cases they went hand in hand. The fungi triggering an effect within the tree which metabolized an enzyme to combat the fungus. This enzyme turning out to be as toxic as that found in the fungus. Nature's checks and balances. 'All for a poisoner's profit.' he chuckled to himself; stopping when he was reminded that it hurt to laugh.
Then he noticed something odd about a trio of trees to his left, growing in a clump. An odd discoloration. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was not anything about the tree itself. It was a clash of colors between the color of the bark and the color the canvas used to make the backpack packed in a niche formed by the twists of the trunks.
"What have we here?" he asked himself with hopes of loot.
x
Inoadar
The poisoner knew he'd made a mistake. It was only to determine how serious it would turn out to be. He trudged across the open land along the shore of Lake Ravok. He hurt everywhere, the Ebonstryfe had seen to that. His horse kept the pain from his legs and ankles, where they'd been beaten and twisted to the point of breaking. But sitting atop the creature brought agony up his spine, from the racking he'd received, with every sway of the horse's gait.
His wrenched fingers found it difficult to hold onto the reins with a strong enough grip to be of any difference if he was to lose his balance. He'd topple over if he tried to look behind him. It felt as if every muscle in his body had been pulled; every bone bruised; every joint hyper-extended.
But he hadn't talked. Not until he wanted to anyway. And the interrogators had been impressed. He'd kept to his story as they questioned his inexplicable appearance in a house they'd had under surveillance. Stricken both by drink and poison, he'd stuck to his claim of a dalliance with a woman met at the Silver Sliver, and a covert entry by a back entry below street level.
The fact was, he had poisoned himself when he realized he'd been set-up. There was no need for him to fake such a condition. His daily work with toxins had made him quite resilient to their influence. This included alcohol. His affinity for enduring pain, coupled with his acting, made him a difficult subject to break under questioning. It took a truly accomplished eye to tell when his screams and begging were not genuine.
But his semi-contradictory stories brought about a reversal of roles. The interrogators yelled and threatened, filling in the blanks with details meant to trip HIM up and reveal his fallacies. Instead, they revealed the details HE hadn't previously known. The Ebonstryfe hadn't been the ones keeping the estate under surveillance. They had wanted to know who was.
Once they gave up on Inoadar, thinking they'd wrung nothing but a consistent account of events leading nowhere, he'd resumed his poise and confidence and gave up the name of the girl who'd sold him out. "Bellarhy Rieade." He was not so much angry at her. Betrayal was a constant element of Ravokian life. He was mad at himself for allowing himself to be duped.
The inquisitors had been shocked. But now Inoadar gave up every bit of information he had. He did it willingly, with a smile on his face. They didn't even need to press him for it. It was a matter of pride for him. Not only to see how long he could last, but to let them know they hadn't broken him. He was a loyal citizen and a capable asset. He wanted them to know it. And only now did he give them his name, or at least the one they knew him by...
"Nolan Parnell"
It had been a while since he'd tested himself against the professional application of pain. But the cross-referencing of files led them to realize this subject had been questioned and released under similar situations before.
But that was days ago. Now his purpose was the collecting of herbs and fungus for toxins. He'd been kind of eager to test his growing knowledge of arboreal types now as well. He'd been exchanging knowledge with Verin Rush for a short while now. He felt he was giving a bit more than he got, since he was sharing knowledge of the uses of advanced equipment as well, but he wasn't going to begrudge the bonus.
He'd come to realize some of the connections between the presence of arboreal toxins within the trees and the presence of fungi without. In some cases they went hand in hand. The fungi triggering an effect within the tree which metabolized an enzyme to combat the fungus. This enzyme turning out to be as toxic as that found in the fungus. Nature's checks and balances. 'All for a poisoner's profit.' he chuckled to himself; stopping when he was reminded that it hurt to laugh.
Then he noticed something odd about a trio of trees to his left, growing in a clump. An odd discoloration. Upon closer inspection, he discovered it was not anything about the tree itself. It was a clash of colors between the color of the bark and the color the canvas used to make the backpack packed in a niche formed by the twists of the trunks.
"What have we here?" he asked himself with hopes of loot.
x