Teasers and so forth...

Summary:

Just to let you know I'm still busy...

Teasers and so forth...

Crazy Aido 02 Nov 2009 08:09

Light ran scared in the hungry darkness of the dungeon, where even the fat tallow candles seemed disparaging of it. Their wavering orange light weaved dark whisps of smoke upward, which clogged itself into the shadows around the arched ceilings. What little brightness escaped them tended to be sucked up into the drops of condensation that teetered from the brickwork, wallowing in the bulging teardrops before plunging to spend themselves against the floor. The dungeon smelled like fear. Of itself, there was no particular smell that marked the faltering of human spirit within the cramped little tunnels, but the olfactory cacophany merged into something that told a tale of broken will and applied menace. There was the sour twist of vomit in the air, along with muskier turns of other human waste, but catching at the edges of all these odours was a constant copper tinge, the mark of the torturer's trade. The darkness, which choked all vision through the winding subteranean tunnels, still couldn't muffle the pitiful fearful din that constantly rang and moaned through its depths. Gates and hammers clanged in some malignant industry, ringing through the black, always however, there was a constant pathetic moan, whimpering and the occasional sudden shreik, here was the mark of questions asked where the answer did not matter. The human sound, the crying, sobbing, helpless groans, was the last effort of those who new their fate, for the dungeon's of the Inquisition did not just claim a person's life, they claimed all the memory of that person ever existing, in their turn…

Languishing in a cell is one such example, already the darkness has begun it's grim task, as only close examination tells much about the doomed soul. The cackling brazier against the wall of the cylindrical cell spits hateful sparks and only shares enough light to mark the long, dark iron brands and other fearful instruments left to warm in its firey grasp. The rest of the room is only bathed in a half-glow of flickering orange. The figure hangs in this hellish illumination by the shackles that hold it's wrists, but it does not hang limp, it kneels, keeps itself upright, just. As the light washes over the figure, it displays a curious contradiction. It wears a dress, not a fine peice of tailoring but a dress none the less, and one with frills and temptation in mind more than practicality. The curve of a woman's physique was evident under it, what was left of its torn and trampled mass. A mass of pale hair dangled over the figures head, obscuring it's face. But through the shreds in material was visible the contradiction, where soft, smooth skin might betray the work of woman of questionable virtue, here there was skin pulled taught over cables of hard muscle. Her legs pooked out from under the shreds of the dress, revealing the well built, developed thighs that usually came of long years at horsemanship. Her arms, though not bulging, still did not display an inch of a lifestyle left to laziness. At every patch of bare skin against the blackness, there was a line of scar-tissue that danced over pale flesh. Her posture, for at the least it was apparent it was a she, displayed stoicism that had obviously earned the wounds gouged into her flesh. Her head is bowed, but it does not hang powerless between her shoulders, the snapping brazier occasionally picks a half open eye on her right side, which shins brilliantly in the light. She waits. She does not cower, even despite the terrible situation she is in, here at least, terrified resolution has not taken hold. Here at least, there is some spirit left.

She did not notice the figure that stands staring at her for some time, though he stands directly before her. She can be forgiven that. The figure appeared as if from the darkness itself, like a concentration of misery squeezed into human form. In the darkness, only the eyes were visable, bright white that shimmers in the poor light. Against the broken woman before it, its size was apparent. The woman in chains eventually cocked her head up, noticing its presence for the first time. She welcomed it by hawking a wad of spit weakly at it, which landed in a deep black cossack. Then she tilted her head further up, her hair clinging limply to one side of her face. A brilliant blue eye was set amidst a lean face, not the hallowing drawn out look of hunger, but one of cold unwelcomingness. A face so thin a smile might crack it in half. She recognised, or rather, failed to recognise, her guest.

“Sorry, thought you were someone else.”

The fist came out of the darkness like a dark lightning bolt, connecting with her cheekbone and spinning her around on her restraints, before it disappeared into the dark again. Her hair followed her like a bolt of silk tossed into the air. She allowed herself to hang from her chains for a moment while she caught her breath. Then, with limp strands of hair whirling sympathetically around the growing flower of a bruise, she looked up again. This time, her hair cast about the way it was, the knot of scar tissue where her left eye used to be was evident. Her right eye narrowed.

Another dark limb snapped out, catching the woman's chin and holding it in the light, long, strong fingers, the shape and texture of blackthorn branches and with all their roughness, held her head in check, while the eyes, hanging in the darkness, examined her.

The voice, when it spoke, was deep and rich, a strong male tone with the phlegmy, gutteral role of the fertile crecent.

“I wonder that I should put your other eye out, how much do you think a blind whore would make on the streets?”

The woman fixed her eye against the two before her, void of emotion.

“About as much as moorish priest.” She said, as levelly as she could. She maintained her cold gaze against her interogater, waiting for the next blow. It failed to appear. The hand holding her face disappeared into the blackness again. The eyes turned into the dark of the entrance to her cell and she watched the shadow against the shadows that had been questioning her melt out into the deeper blackness. It stopped before disappearing completely.

“Take her.”

Then the cell was filled with the odour of sweat and the clanking of the jailer's bulky bodies.

Re: Teasers and so forth...

Crazy Aido 25 Dec 2009 21:20

She was surprised at the treatment once the locks on her manacles were released, she had expected to be dragged by the hair to wherever it was they wanted her, instead, they simply unlocked her restraints. Her arms flapped down in releif and she was allowed a breif moment to rub some life back into her wrists. The jailers simply stood over her, but the message was clear, she wasn't going anywhere without them, but they weren't going to wait all day. She forced herself up off her aching knees, slowly, one leg at a time. Then, in the shreds of a whore's dress and covered in the filth of a dungeon, she straightened herself up. The gaurds showed a breif expression of surprise, for though she was thin and wirey, she was also tall, taller than them even, but more so than that, in her bearing she carried an aura of pride, or diginity. Whatever it was, it made the whole scene look vaguely rediculous. Then she turned to her captors, wordlessly, and they went on their way.

She moved through the dungeon like a marionette, head forward, arms sweeping back and forth. Around her, the poor dregs reached out any way they could. They moaned, they called, the ones with free limbs tried to grasp at her, though they found the jailer who walked behind her eager to bring a wooden club down down on any offending appendage. But she walked on, the waves of human suffering and pleading washed against her and just as easily, washed off. In the jailers, at least, there was at least a willingness to pay attention to them, however baleful. The woman walked through the dungeon as if she were walking down an empty street, her bare feet patting against clammy stone.

Eventually, the jailers led her through the snake's nest of tunnels to the entrance, a large double door, with several guards lazily standing about. A smaller door was set into it, fit for a single person to duck through, and this was open. Through it she could see more carefully carved stone and a torch held in an iron bracket. The jailor in front of her proceeded through the door and she followed. The soldier's eyes went with her, some in interest, some in mild confusion,but no one questioned her passage.

On the other side, there was a different kind of darkness, torches spaced the light out enough to pass without fear of falling, but here the tunnels were straight square affairs of well chiselled stone blocks. The light, though somewhat weak, was still uniform and the three made their way along the unadorned passage until they came to another door, where the jailer in front rattled his way through the ball of keys at his hip before slowly turning the lock over its mechanism with a dull clunk.

The other side of the door was a new world, though there remained the same unadorned stone walls, against one wall were high open arched windows, were pale sunlight rushed through, a solid beam of light that stood in the way of the trio as if to bar their progress. They braved their way through it, though the woman was forced to raise a hand to shield a squinting eye. In the sunlight, the paleness of her skin become apparent, it was as white as the wane light of the sun that caressed it. The scars on her arms and legs stood out look small red insects crawling over her. They walked through the sea of light, even the jailer's showing discomfort by dint of their troglodyte existence, until a corner mercifully released them from it's hold. The lead jailer looked back, expecting a sigh of releif from the woman, but she starred forward, her lowered hand to only sign she had even acknowledged to releif of the shade. On she walked, as if unaware of where she had been or where she was going, which was at least half true. Another door presented itself, not the simple affair of planks thrown together and stuck on a hinge, but a carved peice, nothing extravagant, but at least expressing a place of higher of importance than the dungeons. The lead jailer knocked twice, then, unbidden, pulled the door back on it's hinges. From inside, the room glowed with steady light. The jailor nodded his head into the room and the woman entered, then they passed from each others existance, neither expecting to see the other again.

The room the woman entered was somewhat like her, a contradiction. It's walls were spartan, the same chiselled stone as outside with no hangings or portraits, a crucifix marked the right hand wall as the only show of adornment. Her feet stuck to cold stone, with no carpet to warm her toes, though they did not squirm as someone's might against the discomfort. But dispite this, wealth was apparent, but not gaudy excess, the left wall had a high bookcase set against it, lined with bound tomes and scrolls, each one more than likely enough to keep her fed well through winter. The other furniture of the room was a writing desk, scattered with beeswax candles that lit the the space around with a pleasent yellow halo and illuminated the edges of the othe paraphinalia in the little space. A carved chair had been pulled back from the tesk, beckoning her to sit. On the other side of the desk, a mound of shadow revealed her interrogator, bony fingers steepled under his nose. The light rose up over his face raising the colour from what had been deep black to a dark brown, it peaked in places revealing a face worn with years that had deep folded wrinkles which sank into long black lines that hung about his mouth and eyes. In the midst of all this, his eyes still shone brightly, with black dots of pupils hanging under his eyelids. Those eyes focused on the woman, intently.

“Anya Von Ritter.” He said, at length.