[Black Hole] Duplicity (Inoadar)

[Nemesis]

This was what Ematho liked to see – not the tears, or screams or mindless pleading for the pain to end. No, the Warden of the Black Hole found no such satisfaction in watching those weaker than him prove what he already knew about them (that they could not take the pain). He was a sadist because he needed to be – to enjoy the creams of pain and terror was to not do the job effectively, to become clouded in one’s judgement. No, what Ematho liked to see was the subtle distinction between someone talking too much because they are cocky and believe that they will be the ones to beat the long bells of pain, and someone talking too much because they are frightened.

Those people would lose the filter between their brains and their mouths, and they would regurgitate any and all information they could think of, whether it was true or false. They’d blurt out anything that might stop the next blows of pain. And that was what Ematho wanted from this prisoner… and he suspected that he might get there eventually.

He wasn’t overly curious when it came to the man’s monologue about faith. He did, of course, care when it related to The Defiler, but the abstract concepts were irrelevant. He did, however, look up to meet the man’s eyes when Inoadar accused him of disbelieving where his faith truly lay. It wasn’t that he knew for certain that Inoadar did worship Rhysol, but… “I don’t believe that I ever did imply that your faith was being placed under scrutiny today, Inoadar, at least, not thus far.”

The soldier, having pushed the next finger up, was now holding the hand firmly in place again, and the Druvin lightly rested the strip of metal on the next finger along, though this time he didn’t rest it at the base, but further up, towards the tip of the finger. If necessary, he could chop off each section of the finger individually, maximising the level of pain for the deceptive poison crafter, but limiting the amount of damage, the perfect situation. “But it seems to me that this penchant you have for… miscommunication could be one of the catalysts for your delightful company in this place.. Miscommunications and misunderstandings... that's all, yes?”

“On the subject of miscommunication,” the Druvin pressed down a little harder on the bar, which rested just below the nail-bed of the poisoner’s finger, “the charming little facility you were picked up at. The… ‘Nitrozian-Moletta Sanitary Station. You have an association with that place, no? What need could a medical facility possibly have for a poison crafter such as yourself?”

OOCAnother finger? Or should I change Ematho's tactics in receiving the information that he wants from his lovely little prisoner? >:)

[Inoadar]

Inoadar was incredulous. "If not my faith, then what? I told you I didn't deny my past transgressions!" he realized his voice was more shrill than he wished, and took as deep a breath as he could muster. He growled his response as he exhaled, "Well when you DO get to that subject, let me know, because so far you've asked me nothing I wouldn't tell you willingly over a cup of ale!" He felt his fingers being worked by the soldier again, but refused to unlock his gaze from the Warden's. He concentrated on the words as the man spoke, expecting any second to feel the bite of agony again. He steeled himself for it as best he could, knowing that the anticipation was as much a part of the man's intent as the pain. The best protection was to lock his focus on his words and get through them, relegating ALL OTHER stimuli to a back space in his mind. He knew there was a number of incidents that could be described as 'miscommunications' or 'misunderstandings'. But there was no confusion that this interrogator meant it as sarcasm. He meant situations where such words referred to deliberate acts, where a "misconception" was willingly embraced by all involved. "What? You want to me count off every time I bribed a guard to let me through the line at the ferry, so I could get a better seat?" He snorted in derision, "Are things so slow in your field of work that you have to scrape up such petty crimes to punish? Surely you can find someone guilty of littering!" His words were forced, as he snarled each syllable through his teeth, concentrating so as to maintain focus while anticipating the strike of the tool with each one. Nothing happened. He didn't know whether his words had made any difference, but he appreciated his own joke...A little too much, as he had to make an effort to stop the giggling. He could feel trickles of sweat running from wet locks of hair down by his eyes. He tried to shake them away, but the stinging began. He began to think this little discomfort would be the thing that would break him, rather than the extremes visited upon him by his inquisitor. "NO!" he growled, realizing too late that the man had started talking again. He looked back to hear the rest. "The Sanitary Station? What about it? Why do they need a poison crafter? What, are you serious? If someone comes in with a case of poisoning, should a medical station NOT have anyone that knows a petching thing about poisons? Or SNAKE BITES? You're so cursed smart, you have all this information on me! Then you KNOW I just took the "Serpente" class at the Institute. You need the toxins to develop antidotes, you know!" He couldn't stop his rage, it was what was giving him the strength to endure so far. his voice turned to a sneer. "Ohhh...But I see that look. You only want what you can hold against me! So sure, I make poisons too. Everyone knows it. It's never been a crime to make them before. The NMSS gives me a place to work away from the shop. To work on new ideas and compounds. I thought with the Nitrozian connection, I might get more breakthrough clearance. Special projects. Combining magic and toxins in one. Who knows? It's only a secret as far as keeping competitors from stealing our ideas. We're not keeping anything from the Black Sun." The tool poised over his knuckle was unnerving. "What do you WANT, anyway. Am I supposed to see you as an enemy agent, so I have reason to withhold information? Is this a test? To see how I react to not knowing what you want? All you're doing is making me feel like I ought to NOT be cooperating." fury at the man's bland expression broke his restraint. "Is that what you want? An EXCUSE? To be able to call me an ENEMY because I WON'T COOPERATE?" He collected himself with a few calming breaths. "GO ON then...TAKE the petching finger...Better yet, take the little one on my RIGHT hand instead. I prefer the symmetry if you don't mind. I'll tell you this one thing. I know I'm loyal, and therefore my GOD knows it. You think you know my heart better than HE does? You keep ruining my hands, you'll make me worthless to him. You'll have ruined his property...his asset...If you have his permission to do this, then go ahead, but friend or not...same side or not...I'm done talking to you!"

[Nemesis]

Once the prisoner had started talking, he didn't stop. The Druvin had seen this many times - it often went one of two ways. Some of those he tortured would not utter a word, they might not even scream when the pain inevitably came to them. They would maintain their silence, not pleading their innocence or offering up the answers that Ematho wanted. The Warden couldn't even bring himself to admire the stoic, stubborn individuals; everyone had a breaking point. Some took longer than others to break, but he had all the time in the world, and he would break them.

The other extreme left the torturer's victims a quivering mess. In complete contrast to the silent prisoners, these ones would say nigh on anything that came to mind. Ematho thought that these were more desperate, as they were probably hoping that something, anything they said would be what the torturer wanted to hear. These people would most likes incriminate themselves just to stop the pain, though there was little chance of actually hearing any truth in their rambling utterances.

Inoadar very clearly was not part of the first bracket, but more did he seem to fit into the latter category. For all his words, he was not professing his innocence, but not was he confessing any guilt. This frustrated the Warden and he swung the hammer down upon the metal rod for a second time, effectively removing the tip of the poison crafter's ring finger. “You know, poison crafter, that I am not questioning whether or not you craft poisons, or that you develop antitoxins.”

Prior to meeting Inoadar, Ematho had received the impression that he was an intelligent, witty individual. The man had a way with words, that much could not be denied, but either he was hiding something or he was incredibly dense. No matter who the man was, he had lived in this city for a number of years - and he quite clearly had a reserve of deeper knowledge, and even skill, in the arts that Rhysol favoured. Why, then, was the man rambling on about how innocent his work was? Did he really assume that the knowledge of Ravok's ruling organisations was so sparse?

“But you have a delightfully quaint lab and shop of your own. Ino Vations. Why, then, would you need more facilities? Expecting to retire soon? Because you're not just treating people. You and your colleagues are following up on your patient's payments with... more treatments.” Following the man's arrest, his companion had been escorted from the facility and a more thorough investigation of the building had been issued. There, the Ebonstryfe had found a number of papers which appeared to hold contracts. Patients who couldn't afford payment for their treatments were offering themselves as payment. Whilst this did not concern Rhysol's factions, as most were non-citizens seeking treatment, they wanted to know why.

OOCSorry about the other finger <.< it was just sitting there and... well it was far too tempting - I could not resist!
*

[Inoadar]

Inoadar had been prepared sufficiently to keep from crying out in pain. But worse than the pain was the difficulty in accepting that this man was truly going to ruin his body, his ability to craft, to serve his God! It had not truly come to that yet, but it was on the verge. He could still function at full efficiency, given many days of reacquainting himself with one missing finger, and one merely shortened one. But much more damage, and he would never be the master he aspired to be. "...but it's going to have to be cauterized, they both will..." he muttered in disoriented shock, unaware he was speaking aloud. The echo of his voice, in his own ears, brought it home to him though. He was losing control! He was beginning to ramble and babble. This was where prisoners began to reveal information. He knew it. He'd seen it. He'd DONE it to others. The smell of sweat, and blood, and the throbbing of pain made it difficult to concentrate on what he needed to do. Did he need to continue resisting? Was that what was expected? Were these inane questions about what he was doing at the NMSS just a set-up for something else? He could not believe that this was truly the target information of this ordeal. Wasn't "Nitrozian" part of the name? Didn't that already echo with the implication of desired prestige? Wasn't it obvious they were trying to break new ground? Make names for themselves? Were they in trouble for treating non-citizens? Was this going to backlash on 'Ino Vations'? On Vera? If someone would have asked Inoadar two seasons ago if he cared about his young protege, he'd have rolled his eyes and laughed. If they'd have asked a season later, he'd have agreed that he cared, inasmuch as she showed great promise, and was not to be wasted. There was something new growing there now, however. He could not explain it, but a sudden urgency to divert the subject back to the NMSS, and away from 'Ino Vations' took hold of him. 'Carefully though...' he told himself, being sure to remain outwardly silent this time. It would not do to suddenly wax cooperative. This interrogator was only a single sentence removed from having mentioned his shop. He could not show a change in attitude too soon. "Again, you ask for information you already know! SHOULD know anyway, if you're not a complete idiot! I already told you I would have answered all these questions under no coercion at all! Your unnecessary use of torture makes me think this is not your goal. I am beginning to wonder if this is truly the Black Hole. If you are truly Druvin! You may have drugged me. Brought me to some staged setting to trick me. This could all be an illusion! I said I would tell you nothing, and I stick by that!" The throbbing pain had actually given him a new idea. The body's pulses of life were the foundation of the Flux. And where it usually related to the nerve signals of muscle movement and reinforcement of structure, could it not also be used to affect the relaying of pain? He focused for a moment on the pain and began to inch the throbbing sensation away from the wounded finger. As it left the actual site of the injury, the pain lessened considerably. He believed that by bringing the concentrated pain sensitivity to an uninjured spot, he had deadened the injured site. He knew that he had to be making one location far MORE sensitive, in order to decrease the pain in his finger. So instead, he abandoned the Flux and let the pain return to his fingers, focusing instead on simply being aware of his body's signals, in hopes of making quicker "Fluxed" adjustments when needed. In the meantime, he decided two could play this game. In his most syrupy sweet, sarcastic voice, he crooned, "I have no reason to withhold information from a true follower. So swear to me on your soul that Rhysol is the only true God, and then apologize to me for your ill treatment, and I will deign to speak to you again." He knew from experience that sudden furious outbursts were never as painful as slow patient applications. He hoped to make this man lose his own control for once.

[Nemesis]

The voice was low, but the Druvin could just about hear what his prisoner was saying. Cauterising, yes, that did seem like a good idea. The man turned to the soldier, who was still holding the poisomer's hand firmly against the side of the chair, “You heard the man, soldier, fetch me an open flame, we must ensure that our guest doesn't bleed to death whilst he's here with us.” His tone was facetious, mocking almost, and the guard, who had worked with the Druvin often, shared his twisted smile before rising and slipping out of the room.

The two waited in silence for a few ticks, one calmly watching the other, who was close to teetering over the edge, it seemed. Heavy breathing filled the room before the prisoner spoke again. Still, insults and ramblings were thrown at him, though the Warden of the Black Hole was used to it - many hated who he was and what he did. They had to channel their anger somewhere, so why not at the only true, constant face that they saw in their time down here. Fear and hate were too closely interlinked so the Druvin could ignore most of what he was saying.

His eyes did widen, however, when Inoadar questioned the reality of the situation. Maybe the prisoner was farther gone in his delirium than he had thought in his previous assessment. He knew of few talents that would recreate the cloudy whiteness of his eyes, in particular. But nor could it be said that the prisoner had been drugged since his arrival - Ematho knew how valuable a lucid mind was in these situations. Yes, he imagined that the body had natural defences to pain - which could be the cause of his current state - but nothing artificial had been given to him which might addle his brain.

He had been told that the man came in calmly, willingly. He was co-operative in the offset, which was not normally the case when individuals from Ravok were arrested. Why he was so different now was... perplexing, to say the least. “It is... optimistic to think that you are not in the Black Hole, boy,” he responded in a bland tone, “to the point of foolishness, perhaps.”

He didn't deign to respond to the desperate quip about where his loyalties lay, even finding the comment insulting. It was no matter to him what the man on the wrong side of the chains thought. All he required were answers, which he would get in the end. No matter how long it took.

The soldier returned with a stick of wood, one end covered in a rag, which was doused in oil, and a flame br pruning through the fuel. “Ah, thank you. Luck would have it that our prisoner won't be bleeding out to day.” he held the flat end of the rod in the flame for a chime or so. It wouldn't be white hot, but it was good enough for his medicinal ends. “Keep the flame; we might be needing it again.” The flaming wood was placed in one of the iron holders, then the soldier returned to grasp the bleeding hand. The Warden wasted no time in placing the iron against the tiny stub of the little finger, and then the top of the next digit along.

“Now, I believe I asked you a question, Inoadar. What other activities is your little Sanitary Station up to? What possible purpose could you have for cajoling former patients into contracts with the facility? There is a limit to my perspicacity, you understand.” This time, he did not offer another bout of pain in order to loosen the man's tongue - he had apparently taken to heart the concept of allowing the poison crafter the chance to explain himself without the need for coercion through violence, and he would see if it paid off.

*

[Inoadar]

The chair rocked as the poisoner's squirms rattled its fastenings to the concrete floor. He bucked and thrashed as the smell of burning flesh filled the air as fully as his screams. He had known it was coming, obviously, and had considered trying out his Flux deadening theory, but decided there were worse things than cauterizing. Outside of the initial flash of agony, the nerves died quickly. He flopped back into the chair, enough sweat beading on his brow to have doused the flames entirely. He shook his head to send the sheen spraying in a horizontal arc, lit by the flaming torch. He made to allow just a single chuckle, but it quickly became a manic burst. A calculated one, however. It was time to begin the act of having been broken, to gauge the direction of the questions, while giving up a performance of giving in. "OPTIMISTIC?" he shrieked, spittle flying as he whipped his head to bring his wide eyes to face his tormentor. "Only because it must be run by TRAITORS to try to break a loyal Ravokian for information about something as petty as the NMSS!" he wasn't sure this entirely made sense, but it served just as well to sound unfocused right now. He hung his head and let his shoulders heave a few times, before looking up fearfully, as if dreading which implement was to be applied next. "No please...if you...are who you say, then I want to cooperate..." he gasped several breaths, looking around wildly. "And if you're...enemies...then what I have to say isn't impo...strategic...anyway...So I wouldn't be betraying anything, would I...right?" He cringed one way, and then the other, as if he couldn't decide which of the men he could bear to have closer to him. "The NMSS is nothing! Just having the 'Nitrozian' name on it should make it plain that it's all about gaining prestige. They wanted me because I am a true chemist, to make actual strides in new areas of research. And I needed them to use their name to clear a few obstacles in getting materials. I could have just bought a new 'elaborate' lab for my own shop. But think about it..." his eyes grew intense as he outlined his scheme. "I use it as my own proving ground for poison development. No wait! Listen! There's only so much you can do with the basic set. But my customers don't know my association with the NMSS. That's why my name isn't included." he laughed roughly at his upcoming insult to his partner. "That prissy little fop, Valerius, thinks it's because I recognize my place...my status...as being less than his." he sneered. "But really, I didn't WANT my name on it. I can make higher grade poisons there...at the NMSS...then bring them to my shop, pretending I made them there, with just a basic set!" He looked from face to face, as if expecting realization to show in their expressions. After a few seconds of stone-faced silence, he let a bit of desperation seep into his demeanor. "Don't you SEE? Others in the field are astounded that I can make such compounds with nothing more than a single, mid-sized alembic, a three-slot spinner, and a condensation coil and a few test tubes! They'll think I'm a genius! So what if I deceive a few academic stooges!" He was nodding his head rigorously, acting like it would encourage them to agree with the devious brilliance of his plan. Actually he didn't think they could care less, but he wanted very much to see if this interrogation continued to focus on the NMSS, or if his inquisitor would be satisfied that it was nothing more than a prestige ploy by a scheming, self-important scientist.

[Nemesis]

It didn't work. Ematho's attempt at offering the man a fair chance at answering the question without coercion only lead to further mindless ranting and insults. The Druvin might even have gone so far as to think that the poisoncrafter was thriving off of his own suffering. With each new blow, with each wave of pain that assaulted the man chained to the chair in front of him, he seemed to grow stronger, bolder, even more arrogant. There was not doubt in his mind that his victim was in extreme discomfort from the agony that must be ravaging his hands, which was even probably spreading up his arm, yet he refused to even answer the simplest of questions. “This isn't a matter of breaking a faithful servant to Rhysol, poisoner,” he replied in a low voice, an icy tone marring the previously droll, emotionless speech, “Even the most faithful, if that is truly what you profess to be, can be a danger to The Defiler and Ravok.”

But then he became desperate and, whilst he still did not answer the question asked of him, Inoadar threw words and phrases at him as he tried to defend his position in the Sanitary Station. In this moment, the Druvin truly began to see the fear striving within the man. He did not know if it was his Chaon curse that was beginning to take effect, or if the overload of sensations were addling his prisoner's mind. It was no matter to him, but he could tell that he was getting close to discovering what he wanted, and would continue to push Inoadar.

Taking a step back, he reached down into the small blanket roll from which he was reaching into to collect his implements of torture. When he stood up, in the dark light of the room, Inoadar might be able to see the silhouette of a small bag dangling from his hands by the string that held it closed. “This, we took from your shop, Inoadar. From Ino Vations. Englehorn - you probably made it yourself, have sold it, maybe even used it. I'm sure I don't need to tell you it's effects.”

A malicious smile drifted across his features as his white eyes shone in the low light of the single flickering flame. The Warden took a single step towards his prisoner, and crouched down, so that he was at eye level with the other, the soldier now having moved to stand back against the wall. Inoadar wouldn't see the slow smile that was curling his lips too, enjoying the poetic nature of using someone's own work against him. But the Warden of the Black Hole did not remove his white gaze from his quarry, watching, seeing, looking deeper than what he saw on the surface. There could be no doubt in the poison crafter's mind that the Englehorn poison would be used if he did not answer.

“I will not ask you again, Inoadar. It seems curious that your... Valerius Nitrozian's facility was created near around the same time that we began receiving reports of fish.” He paused, allowing the threat and accusation to sink into the man. Carefully examining the captive's face, he continued, and as he did! he laced each word with more powerful corruption from his gift from Rhysol, ensuring that, by the time he would come back to Inoadar, the curse would be rife within him. From the man's utterances, Ematho could tell that the was losing his composure and slipping into the chasm that only a few of Rhysol's most favoured thrived in.

“Without these answers, you will never leave this place. Do you enjoy your freedom, Mister Parnell?” He used the identity, as if speaking to the citizen, rather than the criminal, appealing to the man's clear desire to appear as worthy of, and close to, Rhysol as possible. “You will give me the answers I want, lest terror claims you and your cell becomes your only sanctuary.” Ematho stood, pulling away and turning his gaze to the soldier. “I'm done with him, return him to his cell.”

OOCOkay, so more time for reflection for our poor prisoner. Feel free to reply to Ematho and NPC his lack of response... and then you get the manifestation of the Chaon curse for two days!

*

[Inoadar]

Pure shock stunned Inoadar into a moment of silence. This was beyond anything he'd expected to be blown out of proportion. Not the threat of Englehorn; threats were a perfectly normal element of an interrogation. But now THIS? This accusation of creating this monster? "What?...did you-...do you...are...you serious?" he stammered. "You think WE-...the Sanitary Station?...Are responsible for the FISH?...That's CRAZY!" He'd assumed his growing difficulty in focusing on devised responses was simply the result of unending pain. But now that he had a definite subject, he still found himself distracted from being able to completely grasp an approach to deny it. Tormentors began sneaking from the recesses of his mind, taking the shapes of his associates and friends. "Is that something Amolina told you? Is THIS where she disappeared to?" he demanded, then second guessed himself. 'No...that's what someone WANTS me to think...but who?...' The soldier smirked at him. An outburst threatened, but he managed to contain it, for the most part. "What are YOU laughing at, servant boy? Did your boss tell a joke? Is that what all this is? Some sort of joke?" he turned his head toward the departing Warden, "She's just a petching NURSE! You know as well as I do that she could be made to say anything you want! It doesn't make it TRUE! And MY VALERIUS..." Inoadar sneered, "...would say ANYTHING to avoid embarrassment! Scandal! He might lose his front row seat at the Pits!" It suddenly occurred to him that he was not serving his own interests by making his associates out to be ineffective figureheads with no real talent. Then it WOULD look like he was the only suspect. He couldn't shake the thought of the two other founders of the facility patting each other on the back and closing him off behind some steel door, in complete darkness. A snake wound it's way through the inky blackness of his imagination and wrapped itself around his ankle, becoming a manacle. Spider webs floated down to entangle his arms in irons. Verin now joined Amolina and Valerius as certain conspirators. It all made sense now. They'd tricked him. They'd set him up. They'd gotten what they needed, research-wise, out of him and now they needed him gone. How could he have been such a fool! THEY were the ones with the connections to the KRI! There must have been some research on gargantual mutation on record there! They'd snuck it by him, and used his own expertise against him. It still didn't explain Verin, but the timing of his arrest was all he needed to suspect HIM! Now Burke joined the enemy...Vanari as well, and.... Blackest despair assailed him. His heart tore through his sternum, leaving a vacuum of any form of hope...Vera...her too? The one thing that actually opposed the complete self-serving attitude he'd struggled through life with? The one thing that didn't make him feel weak to wish to make sacrifices for? The one that would outgrow him and craft a legacy for him to find true pride in? Had Burke charmed her? Verin? Was Vanari whoring her out? Was one of them gaining the favor of Rhysol for this betrayal? He sank into utter self-loathing. He deserved this, and he knew it. Rhysol had outdone himself with this bit of theater. Letting him believe in himself. Letting him think he'd outshone his earlier treasons with effective resourcefulness. Let him build an effective network; almost a full fledged faction of his own. Only to take it from him, and pass it on to someone else. If it could have been Vera that gained it, he might have been able to stomach it. But somehow he knew she'd be the next one thrown to the wol-....the fishes!" He started to chuckle at the misdirected saying. The chuckle quickly grew unmanageable. His throat grew raw with it, and it became hard to time his breathing. His cheeks tickled and when he leaned forward, he felt cold spots form on his legs. He was crying! When had this last happened? He could not remember! He strained against the seat, trying to tear it loose from its mountings. The soldier just laughed some more. "SHUT UP, YOU COWARD!" Inoadar raged, "LET ME LOOSE AND GIVE ME A KNIFE YOU PETCHER, AND I'LL CUT THAT LAUGH OUT OF YOUR THROAT! WEAR YOUR PETCHING ARMOR IF YOU'RE SCARED, YOU CHICKENSHYKE STOOGE! I'LL GO NAKED AND STAB YOUR ASS WITH MY CO-..." The soldier pounded him across the face with a gauntletted fist, and then wrapped his hand around the poisoner's throat, growling a command to silence. Inoadar spit in his face, and actually loosened one of the mounts enough to head bash the guy. Before the soldier got back to his feet and beat him to unconsciousness, he railed, loud enough for Ematho to hear. "I'LL TELL YOU WHAT WE DO AT THE STATION! WE'RE MAKING A SERUM TO TURN DRUVIN INTO SOMETHING USEFUL!! SOMETHING THAT COULD STAND UP TO A LITTLE GIRL! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU WHITE EYED SHYKE?"

[Nemesis]

Ematho remained impassive, and unmoving, as his prisoner screamed and yelled at him. It could be said that years, decades, even centuries of serving Rhysol as the Warden of the a black Hole had left Ematho with all the control he needed to betray nothing as he watched and heard protests from those he worked upon. Or maybe the time had eaten away at emotion that could have once be found in him. Whether he felt nothing, or whether he had schooled himself so show nothing, however, would never been known by Inoadar, or any other prisoner of his dark fortress.

Through his pale eyes, blind in appearance, he could see everything. Inoadar fighting against the soldier, the shouts of anger, but he could see inside. He could see the poisoner unravelling inside of himself, the darkness taking hold. He was frightened at the last of the questions asked. In those few moments the Druvin could watch, as if in slow motion, as the poison crafter lost any façade of sensibilities.

Any previous innocence he believed he had once held were lost, any minor slights to the city he thought he would be able to get away with. Any one lost Kelvic did not affect the city, a dead citizen meant death, but endangering the lives of every inhabitant of the city? Ematho could see the gravity of the situation press it's heavy weight upon him. If he wasn't broken yet, the Chaon curse would fester in him for two days more, and then Ematho would return.

As Inoadar was dragged out of the room and back into the darkened corridor towards his own cell, the Warden thought on the sudden change. For all other questions, Inoadar had resolutely refused to give an answer, yet nor did he insist on pleading his innocence. Everything out of his mouth had been sharp, cutting wit aimed at insult. He had been a most uncooperative captive, Ematho thought. Yet, the instant the interrogation came to the true topic of the Fish that lived in Lake Racok's depths, Inoadar's tongue remained sharp, but his efforts drastically shifted to defend himself, insisting that he was innocent of the charge. Ematho only had to wait, however.

The soldier dragging the prisoner along the narrow corridor, however, was not so well trained in disguising his emotions. His punch was aimed true, and his subsequent pummelling towards his victim were out of anger, rather than self-defence. It mattered not if the man carried more injuries than those the Warden himself inflicted, and the soldier wanted silence.

Still standing alone in the interrogation room, the Druvin's first sign of movement was that of his lips curling up into a smile. His prisoner was threatening him, and it was a mild amusement, stand out against the monotony of weakness that he normally encountered. Treasonous, perhaps, and worthy of death in itself, but different.

Unceremoniously, Inoadar was thrown back into his cell, and left there, fingers still pounding, and ribs aching from where he had been beaten. By the time he would awaken, silence would have fallen on the corridor, all prisoners too wearied or damaged to move or make a sound. Darkness would also have fallen, leaving them in unnatural darkness, without even the stars to comfort them. The blood would have stopped running freely from his orifices, coagulating in lumps, and leaving the distinct taste of iron in his mouth. And there he would be left, in his own blood and sweat, for two days.

*

[Inoadar]

Pain lanced his cheek. He felt his eyes open, but there was no sight. There was sound though, low groans and a few whimpers from far recesses of the distant blackness. These pleas for mercy, articulate or not, were rewarded with harsh demands for quiet, and mocking imitations. A sudden realization of an impending cycle of protest and ridicule manifested itself as Inoadar realized it was the exchanges between "veteran" prisoners, and newcomers, like himself. He realized he had been hearing it for bells...gods' teeth...maybe days. It chilled him to the bone. This was not just a metaphoric chill. He felt as if his body had tunnels with ice water flowing back and forth through it. Hollow laughter seemed to match the pace his shivering. It was a physical thing, each guffaw emphasizing the cold. A memory fought to make itself remembered. He'd been underground then, as he was underground now. Had he been dead? It seemed the cold of the grave. That struck him suddenly. The laughter coalesced audibly into a voice, a sound scraped from the stone, rasping his nerves with icy contempt. The echo transforming every 's' into a snake's hiss. "Ssssso....do you like it...Trandino?.....Yessss....I know your name....your true name....your truesssst name. The name to which you bring ever increassssing sssshame...Do you like your new home?....You musssst....for you do all in your power to ssstay.....and for what?.....to sssspare thosse that cursssed you from following you down?" Inoadar rolled over, wincing with every twitch of every muscle required to accomplish the task. He realized he was NOT blind after all. He was back in his cell. He felt the crust of dried blood pulling against the skin it had dried to as he sat up. And the bruised joints screaming in agonized protest. "Who is that?" he tried to say, but it came out as a half strangled croak. He needed water, his throat felt swollen for its lack. The cold seemed to rise from the stone floor, a mist that writhed on nonexistent currents of stagnant air, flowing and pulsing with the words that spoke of his foolishness. "I am one you are all too familiar with....The ssspirit of failure....You met me beneath the anccccient dig....You and your party....at the behessst of your sssuperiorsss....thossse ssssame onesss that torment you now....I took you captive of body...but you were resssourccceful of mind.....why are you ssssuch a fool now?" Even as Inoadar dredged up the memory of the excursion to the dig site, and the encounter with ghosts, the mist swirled and contracted to form around a central figure, crudely humanoid in shape, but grossly distorted. He could feel icy cold radiating from it. "I asssk again, Trandino...why do you not ssssave yoursssself? It doessss not need to be the truth, doesss it. You can tell the inquisssitor what he wantsss to hear. You are a gifted liar....Ssssurley you do not think that Valeriusss....or Amolina....would trade placcccesss with you....for the ssssake of truth?" The laughter speared Inoadar's dwindling self esteem with a spike of contempt. "It has nothing to do with that!" he protested, finding a path of flesh in his throat not rasped by dryness. "I would condemn them ALL if I did not have to hear him question my word. I can lie to anyone that deserves it. But this is a champion of my god, and his accusation is beyond my ability to disprove. I don't know why he believes such a thing of me." "HEY! SHUT THE PETCH UP! I'VE GOT A SESSION LATER THIS MORNING AND I NEED TO BE AT MY BEST!" a voice mocked from some far end of some corridor. Grim laughter belied the fear that tainted it. The form came closer, or perhaps just grew in its spot to give that impression. Its words seeming to form in his own mind, of their own accord. "He believessss becausssse he knowssss you capable of such greatnesssss. He knowsssss your partnerssss are not the power that drivessss the Sssstation. But he knowssss they have the conneccctionsss you lack. Give them up, Trandino....Give them ALL up....You know it will take ALL of them....Valeriussss....Amolina.....Doctor Mazzzetti.....Verin.....Burke.....even...." Inoadar shot up straight, "NO, Not Vera! There's no reason for HER to be brought into this." genuine dread filled him, but the ghostly voice countered with what Inoadar knew deep inside. "There issss if you want to convinccce him of your ssssincccerity..." Even in the fragmented personality of his own mind, Inoadar reeled at the mockery of the word. The greatest fear he could imagine surfaced now as the voice continued. "Do you think he doessss not know?....know of her?....know of Vera?....That isss the only way to prove yourssself....They are ALL in on it.....Can you not sssseeee it? He put them ALL up to it....all but her....but sssshe issss the key....only in her ssssurrender do you prove reverent loyalty." Unnoticed tears streamed down his face, his voice choking in gasps of desperation. "But she's all I have. She has such potential! Why would he want it wasted? If he thinks ME so capable, why would he not want her to surpass me in skill?" Mockery dominated the voice. "Yessss.....sssuch a gifted liar....Now you even lie to yourssssself!" the mockery retreated to be replaced by anger and loathing. "You disssregard the lessssonsss you taught her! Where now your philossssophy? Thisss posssition on earning the ssstatusss of your nexssst life through the accctionsss of thissss one? You would do nothing to her that you yoursssself do not feel MUSSST be dessserved! That it doessss not happen unlessss one has merited it by their lassst life! If you sssend her to thisss doom, it musssst be what ssshe hassss coming! Sssso do not hessssitate, Trandino." Inside the deepest recesses of his soul, Inoadar cringed. For he knew what the TRUE goal of the voice's accusation was to be. Even as his dread took form, the words burned a furrow of loathing across his soul. "And do not try to tell ME WHY you hesssitate! It isss NOT for want of her ssssskill to do you proud. That would give you ssstrength, Trandino! And all I sssssee and feel issss weaknessss! The weaknessss of compasssion! The weaknessss of caring.....The weaknessss of LOVE! You will be crusssshed by such a weaknessss, Trandino....you KNOW it isss the truth. Rhyssssol will reject you...assss he SSHOULD!" He sagged in self loathing and defeat. He knew it was true. If he betrayed them all, it would only be the summation of that fate which they had all earned for themselves in their last life. Vera as much as the rest. And if he went free as a result, That too would only be the conclusion of the gods' plans for him. But at the back of his mind, the stubborn refusal still percolated. If he chose to languish here, and by doing so, save Vera, that TOO would be what he would HAVE to have deserved. But there was still the anger at the rest of them. He did not question the ghostly voice, now silent, but its absence unnoticed by his fevered train of thoughts. If he could trade all BUT Vera, he would even be WILLING to stay incarcerated. He would even be HAPPY just to see the dread in their faces. He knew he could grow accustomed to it, if he had the balm of their anguished cries of agony and injustice to offset the cold and dark. He even longed to hear them hurl their hateful recriminations at him. Would it not be a beautiful betrayal? Would Rhysol not find voice to sing of it? Something happened inside him now. At the same time that his spirit had broken, it reset. He would not fail Vera. No amount of madness could make him believe in her being a part of this. Marcus must have been in on it though. Now Clyde Sullins and Wrenmae joined the throng of those teamed against him as well. A new strength blazed in his eyes; borne of both love and hate, succor and vengeance. The sense of insurmountable odds beckoned him to find untapped reserves. If he died, it would be surrounded by the corpses of his enemies! He would kill them ALL! Even if only by watching them rot before his eyes. How he would laugh! He could die a happy man if only they died before him.