squire
Scholar
"Sir, he drove off the roof."
Posts: 78
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Post by squire on Jul 7, 2008 11:04:46 GMT -5
Darkness.
Year of Adonai 3588
The eerie, ebony pit. The eye is blinded, the senses fooled. The abyss of darkness is boundless and never ending, yet it seems to be encompassed by a great wall to protect those within. The wall has no height or depth, it cannot be climbed over or tunneled under. One must venture through it. There is no way to reach those within save for either their own will to struggle through an infinitesimal hole in said wall or for someone without to reach in and pull the denizen of darkness to freedom.
Only one thing permanently resides in this darkness, presiding over its captives. That one constant resident is silence, unending silence.
Nothing to feel, nothing to smell, nothing to see.
Only silence.
A tap of sound scattered through the darkness.
Then silence, nothing to feel, nothing to sme-
A stale, tepid odor wafted past.
Nothing to see, nothing to hear.
“ake u,”
Silence, nothing to smell, nothing to see.
A flash of light thundered in.
“up lass,” Something in the air felt cold… damp…
Another flash of light went past, followed by some grey color.
“Wake up!” A blurry image began to register…
"Git up now, lassie!" An older man’s scarred face stared down at the waking sleeper. She saw a rounded stone wall and a wooden ceiling behind him. Everything wavered, like a ripple distorting a reflection in water, as he gently shook her again.
She groaned weakly, naturally resenting the interruption of what must have been slumber.
"Please wake up!" he shook a little harder. Her eyes flickered open again and she stared at the man with a dazed and slightly annoyed look on her face. “I was afraid ye wouldn’t ever git up; ye’ve been out like a solar eclipse ever since they brought you in ‘ere two days ago.”
His accent somehow seemed friendly for a nameless reason. But the words were not so friendly. Out like a solar eclipse? Two days ago?
“Where am I?” She stammered, almost without meaning to say it aloud, as her thoughts became a bit more orderly, “Who are you?"
"Tarnen, me young friend. And I'd like to ask ye the same question."
"I,” She started, but was unable to finish.
"Ye mean ye don't remember? Do ye know how ye got 'ere, then?”
She racked her brain for an identity, a past, anything that made sense, but nothing came. Not only did nothing come, but it seemed as though there was nothing there to come. This feeling made the girl feel very uneasy; she could formulate rational thoughts, yes, but that was only on the surface. Down deeper, where the things of importance are stored, there was simply no accessible information.
She almost began to panic at this loss of information that she knew should have been there, but before she could do so, the old man asked a more specific question.
"So, ye don't remember the battle?"
"Battle?"
"Aye, they must've got ye purty 'ard in the head when they captured ye iffin ye don't 'member it at’all! I was beginnin’ to get worrisome for your sake. Why don't ye git up- if ye can- so I can see if ye’re not wounded?”
Though her still-groggy mind was nowhere near the point of being fully awake, she began to stand with Tarnen's help. But, as soon as she started to move, some previously forgotten pain sliced through her left side like a merciless bolt of lightning, shoving her to her knees and knocking the breath from her lungs. She gasped for air and shut her eyes for its excruciating level, which was high above her tolerance threshold.
When she was able to breathe again, the girl looked up at the old man, hoping that he would offer some comfort. But, he simply stared at her, appearing interested, yet unknowing as to what he could do to help. The girl apprehensively reached to her side, where the pain had originated, and was again shocked with a searing jolt of pain. She gasped quietly as it almost stole her breath again, but wasn’t quite as severe as the last one.
Carefully, the girl probed her side with her fingers and felt a terribly rough, stiff thing just where her ribcage ended; a jagged scab over a torturous wound.
“I suppose you are wounded then?” The old man asked, though he already knew the answer.
The girl looked up at him again, and said, “It would seem as though I am.”
“Well,” Tarnen began, “Perhaps ye’re in a bit worse a way than ye thought,” He wrinkled his nose and appeared to actually be trying to think of some way to help her when she spoke again.
“Perhaps I am.”
As she said this, she began to look around the room for the first time. It was a circular, stone walled room, about ten feet in diameter and the only furnishings were two crude benches and a few piles of straw. There were no tapestries or hangings of any sort to insulate the walls. There were no candles or personal items at all. Suddenly, one of the words that the old man had spoken earlier, one which had slid past the processors in her waking mind, was recalled to her; “captured.”
Fear had already been biting at her because of the shock of waking up in a strange room with an old man she had never seen before. Now that same fear began to take hold as she realized that she was in a prison cell. Along with this realization, countless questions flooded into her mind. Why am I in a prison? What did I do? How long am I to be kept here? Who is my captor?
How am I going to get out?
Before she could even begin to try to answer any of these questions, the old man spoke up.
“Ye ought to lie down, lass. That wound‘ll only get worse if ye keep on moving around. There’s a cot right behind ye, so why don’t we get ye on it?” He put a caring hand on her shoulder and she turned to find one of the wooden benches she had noticed a few moments before; apparently that was where she had been sleeping for two days.
When she was sitting on it, for she refused to lie down until Tarnen left her be, he spoke again, “I do wonder, though, how it is that you were captured at all. I mean, yer muscles cain’t be any less than what ye’d call extraordinary for someone of your gender,” At this, he jabbed a finger at her arm.
She followed his finger and saw that she was a little muscular, certainly more than she felt was normal for a girl of an age around nineteen or twenty, anyhow. She also saw that she wore a slightly battered and torn underdress, the kind that would be worn under a militant’s armor. I guess he was right, she thought, I must be some sort of soldier. But what war is he speaking of? The girl began to lay down as Tarnen had turned to leave her to her own thoughts. And, if I am some sort of soldier, then the only reason I should be in a prison would be…
"So, I suppose I must be a prisoner of war," she said, half thinking aloud, and half speaking her mind to Tarnen. He quietly grunted and nodded his approval of such a deduction on her part.
As the old man did not offer any more insight on the subject, she closed her eyes and thought about the grim situation in which she had found herself for a few minutes, and then asked, "So who is our gracious host, anyway?"
"Ah, well, that would be, Lord Tkand of--"
He stopped as the sound of the cell door squealing open interrupted him. A hefty guard appeared and lumbered in. He was a heavily built man, with many a scar on his face and arms. There were several sets of shackles hanging from his belt next to a short sword. Under this was a plated leather kilt and leather strapped sandals. His right ear was branded with a G and metal cuffguards encased his forearms. The symbol engraved in the cuffguards looked like a decorated version of the same G that was on his ear, it somehow seemed familiar to the girl. She couldn't remember why, but the symbol enstilled in her a bitter feeling of hate; and an enemy.
"Which one o’ ye is Eladar?" The guard’s gruff voice demanded. It sounded like he made a regular practice of drinking ale and smoking snipweed. The thick aroma reached her a moment later and confirmed her suspicions, as his breath spread the stench throughout the small cell. Its overpowering pungency reminded the girl of her reason for never taking such so called pleasures herself.
Tarnen, however, seemed unaffected by the smell as he and the girl looked at each other and around the cell; nobody else is in here, so I suppose she must be 'Eladar.' Tarnen thought.
"Eh, this must be 'er, sir," he said, pointing a slightly reluctant finger at her.
"Well then, git over 'ere; an' next time don't take so long 'bout responding!"
She tried to get up from the bench without reviving too much of the pain in her side, but even with Tarnen's help, she was not fast enough to please the guard.
He angrily stalked over to her and shoved Tarnen out of the way, slamming the old man’s brittle frame into the wall. He jerked Eladar the rest of the way to her feet and dragged her to the cell door. The time he took in closing the door and re-engaging the padlock was just enough time for Eladar to regain her breath and stand up as erectly as was possible without excessive pain.
The guard pushed her in front of him as they walked out the cell doorway. The sound of Tarnin’s groaning faded as Eladar felt what seemed as though it should have been freedom at exiting the confinement of the cell, yet it was the very converse of liberation that she experienced. It was instead the foul grip of a guard who led her to an unknown destination, down an impregnable stone corridor. The conflicts of hope and dread in Eladar’s mind were verging on the edge of what she could bear.
Through the cell-tunnel lined with cell doors they trudged, and ascended a flight of stairs at the end. The guard would thump her shoulder or shove her on when her pace was too slow to please him. Two more huge guards held sentry positions on either side of landing at the top. They resembled ancient statues of war heroes, except that they were far less than handsome.
Past the landing and the guards was the torture chamber, which was thankfully not in use at the time. There were many different metal devices dangling from the walls and tables in the room. Eladar could smell the stench of stale blood, extracted from many men by the very tools that hung throughout the room. Splotches of the black, dried stuff were spattered over everything and the echoes of excruciating screams seemed to silently reverberate around them.
Eladar shuddered at the thought of how many people had likely died in that room... and hoped she wouldn't be next.
~
Kelin of Grazan, more widely known as the Black Assassin, was robed in a black, hooded leather cloak which cast a deep shadow over his face. Under the cloak he wore a closely fitting, custom suit of stiffened, treated leather armor. There was one dagger strapped to his each of his calves and another on his right thigh. He had a sword sheathed at his side and a light crossbow on his back juxtaposed was by a second sword.
An assassin must never be without his options.
The Black Assassin made a sharp whistling noise with his mouth, a command system between an assassin and his horse which all Guilnrezian assassins used; this particular command was the instruction to increase speed. An assassin neither needed nor used a saddle or bridle on his horse; he trained his horse to respond to whistling commands but also learned to use motion and pressure commands, which every horse understands as a result of their natural instinct, whether trained or wild.
The horse sped up to a gallop, kicking up mud along the trail. It was midnight. The Assassin and his mount seemed as one since he did not sit up on the horse as normal riders do. He was instead bent low on the animal, nearly flush with its body, his black cloak flowing behind him and rustling in the moons light. If one were to see him riding past, they would wonder if it were a spirit or demon, stealing through the darkest of night. Even if one would somehow have known who he was, or what he was, they would still be gripped by intense fear, wondering if he were searching for them or someone they knew.
He was riding toward Guilnrez’s capital, Falcolm, which was to the Northeast. He had been working on his current assignment for several weeks and was on his way to make one of many reports to the King of Guilnrez, King Keilottner. He had been told of a ring that had once belonged to the previous king and for some undisclosed reason was wanted by the current king. His only description of it was that his bore a seal, a capital G with some decorations. This was rather vague, and as Kelin had already found, did not narrow his search by too great a margin. He had already found two rings that were not the one for which he searched.
He would not return with the wrong one again.
The Black Assassin was given the task of finding this ring because he was the best and most efficient of Guilnrez’s assassins. So he was told. Because of his previous mis-successes, he was given the instructions to report back to the king with any leads he might find.
The Black Assassin avoided main roads whenever possible; he did not want his reputation to grow any more. His name was known well and feared among all the nobles in Guilnrez. But no one knew what he looked like (save his superiors) because the only people who saw him as the Black Assassin and not Kelin of Grazan, were either his targets or those whom he interrogated, who did not remain conscious more than a few minutes in his presence. And as an Assassin he did so only at night, when his description could not be determined.
Kelin had been destined for a military career. It was the intent of every nobleman from the West Coast of Merez to the plains of Ktan in the East to make his son into a warrior. Kelin was the son of a nobleman, a governor with many underlords, and was now fulfilling his destiny as such.
Thus was the man who rode through the dense forest of middle Guilnrez, The Black Assassin. He did not feel like being Kelin at the time. He had some questions to answer and he did not want to waste any time while on this mission. Besides, he could induce answers much quicker as an assassin than he could as a nobleman’s son, especially in the middle of the night.
~
After climbing two additional flights of stairs, the guard finally stopped in front of a door and knocked twice. Eladar barely heard a grunt from within and the guard responded by thrusting open the door and stating, "Prisoner Eladar, your Lordship," without any pomp or ceremony. He then grasped her shoulder as if it were the horn of an obstinate ox and Eladar found that she was standing at the front of a furnished room, roughly ten feet away from a huge desk, which was nearly as large as a small bed. A crackling fire glowed in a large fireplace in the wall next to the desk, the sweet smell of its burning wood filling the room.
An almost handsome man of an age near thirty was seated in a proportionately large chair behind the desk, writing something in a ledger. Without looking up from his work, he waved for the guard to leave. The guard shoved Eladar one last time, causing her to stumble another several feet into the chamber, and exited. The man at the desk continued to work on the ledger for several minutes before stopping up the inkwell, wiping his pen, closing the book and looking up at her.
He stood and bowed in an exaggerated, mocking sort of manner. After righting himself, he spoke through a haughty grin, “I present myself, Lord Tkand of Gurnwend,” He thrust his hand toward her in a halfheartedly expectant sort of way. “And you,” he flicked his fingers at the girl and continued, “You are the famed Lady Eladar, Protector of Merez.”
He looked at her like a buyer determining the value of a horse on market day and sat down while she stood in front of the door, uncomfortable and confused, but knowing that there was nothing she could do to change her present situation. The egotistic smile faded from Tkand’s face, replaced by an expression of slight bafflement. “You know, I really had expected a little more resistance from you," He mused.
'Merez'? She thought, remembering his mocking introduction and trying to remember what the word signified, Merez, Once again, she was searching in the slowly reappearing deeper realms of her memory, something in the name seemed like a proverbial thread, at the end of which hung the meaning of the word. She followed the tangly thread through her mind until she found something of worth, Merez...oh! Eladar remembered what it was, her homeland, Merez.
Her expression did not falter as the realization hit her because she had trained herself to not allow emotions and thoughts to reveal themselves, though it was subconscious now. Instead, she simply glared at him and in the mean time noticed that he had long, black hair, a goatee, and wore gaudily expensive-looking clothing, which was adorned with the same symbol as the one she had seen on the guard.
She, on the other hand, must have made a pretty sorry picture. She was partially hunched over as she held the terrible wound in her side, trying to ease the pain caused by her trip up to this room. Her breathing was shallow as a result of the same pain, and she herself must have looked anything but groomed.
Yet, he seemed to take no notice of these things and instead stood up and walked toward her. The vacant chair stood behind him, its arms seemingly opened wide in an invitation to her weary figure. She nearly swooned with longing to simply sit on its plush seat and rest her head on its cushioned back, even if only for a moment. But the man blocked her view as he strode toward her, staring only into her eyes as if searching for fear in them. But when he couldn’t find it, he attempted to instigate some himself.
"Women like you intrigue me," he said with a disgustingly entertained look in his eyes. "Beautiful, cunning, strong willed... and yet, here you stand, a prisoner, in my castle," he narrowed his eyes and added, “Helpless.” A satisfied smile crept over his face as he spoke.
So it would appear, Eladar thought, Yet it shall not last long if I can help it. Her eyes flashed with a spark of disdain at his pride, she certainly didn’t mind letting him see that she wasn’t happy to be there. She determined in that same flicker that she would take every chance she was presented with to make her escape.
"You are thinking about escaping now, are you not?" Tkand’s sickly-smooth voice was dreadfully irritating.
"Hmm, well,” he continued, “I can assure you now that any attempt to leave shall be in vain,” It seemed as though he could read her mind. “You see, here at Gurnwend, I hold well over 150 prisoners- prisoners of war, deserters, murderers, thieves- and to keep them in line, I have a staff of over 100 well-equipped guards and executioners. So, even if you manage to get out of your cell, or even out of the castle, you will not get very far. By the way, no one has ever succeeded in escaping. And, you can be sure, if you do get the notion to escape, you will be punished,” Here he paused, a rehearsed pause in a rehearsed monologue, and then added, “Severely."
Eladar was unmoved by his confident speech and coolly responded. "I care not for my own freedom or life, but only for the freedom and safety of Merez." The threat had reminded her of the values she held for her country, but not much else.
“Well that is good,” Tkand said, drawing out the “good” so that it sounded like the cooing of a bird, and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned around and walked toward a large window at the opposite end of the room. "Because your life is no longer yours. It is mine. Thus, I can do anything I want with you... anything I want to you."
There were two windows at the end of the room, each nearly reaching as the ceiling and together were about as wide as two armlengths. Tkand stood at the center of the right window, with his back turned toward Eladar and staring out through it, obviously deep in his contemptuous thoughts. Eladar took the opportunity and studied the room as her pain had subsided enough for her to concentrate on something else more fully.
There were bookcases lining the walls from the floor all the way up to the beams of the ceiling, every one filled with books, stacks of vellum manuscripts and a few scattered scrolls. Many of these looked quite aged and well worn with much use and reference. On the behemoth of a desk at which Tkand had sat lay various bookkeeping items: blank documents, bottles of ink, quaydbird feather quills and a silver letter opener. The last of which, as it occurred to Eladar, might provide for a means of escape, but before she could even step toward it, Tkand spun around, a determinedly bored look on his face, and said, "I am done with you for today."
He strode back to his desk and said with a slightly higher volume, "Guard!" and the guard who had escorted Eladar from her cell earlier opened the door.
"Your Lordship?" His rough voice replied.
"Take the prisoner back down to her cell, normal rations and treatment apply to her,” Lord Tkand stroked his goatee thoughtfully for a moment and then continued, “Save for the king’s decree.”
"Yes sir. Right away, sir."
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