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.