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<blockquote data-quote="Xorn" data-source="post: 4374598" data-attributes="member: 61231"><p>A blast of cold water crashed into the man’s face, an ecstasy of relief from the sweat and grime that had caked his skin for the last several hours, and an agony of panic as the water went up is mouth and nose as he thought he might drown, just trying to draw a breath. Coughing violently he strained to right himself, feeling the tight ropes cutting into the flesh of his wrists behind his back. Finally, after a few seconds of sputtering that felt like minutes, he managed to cough out enough water to draw a more or less clear breath.</p><p></p><p>As his blurry vision fought to blink away the grease and blood that had run up is face into his eyes, he could see his captor, setting down a wooden pail. No, actually it was the chamber pot of his room. He looked down, mentally noting that he was actually looking up, and was horrified at what he saw.</p><p></p><p>His position had not changed; he was still hanging from a rope secured to the heavy bed frame, trailing up to the thick central ceiling beam that extended from the center of the building to the walls, and down to his ankles. They were swollen and discolored, a hideous combination of purple and black, and in oddly thankful way, he couldn’t feel the pain that had been coming from his feet all night. His head was pounding, and he had trouble thinking clearly—his face felt like it was going to burst, and he had been hanging upside down since he had been drug out of bed up into the air.</p><p></p><p>The ropes didn’t stop at his blackened feet though. After the knots secured around his ankles, two taut pieces of rope trailed to his hands, wrapped tightly around his wrists, so they were supporting as much of his weight as his legs. He had no doubt the flesh on his hands was black as well, but he could still feel them, in the form of a vague, pounding thrum of pain. Then the ropes continued to his throat, choking him thoroughly whenever he struggled, or tried to move either of his limbs.</p><p></p><p>That hadn’t stopped him from moving throughout the night, as the cloaked figure that now floated across the floor on unseen legs had hurt him. They had been merciless, asked no questions, and never hesitated in their horrific deed, despite his muffled cries and weeping for mercy. That was when he noticed he didn’t have a gag in his mouth anymore.</p><p></p><p>Frantically he tried to scream, but didn’t even hear his own voice, despite his pain wracked effort to call for help. The form stopped, that hideous, terrible face he had envisioned each time he passed out hiding beneath the shadow of the cowl it wore. A slender, tiny gloved hand rose out of the cloak, carrying a gleaming stiletto, adorned with various precious stones. He felt a well of panic, which he thought had been exhausted by this hour of his torture, but as the tip neared his throat, he began to weep uncontrollably, not for the first time this night.</p><p></p><p>“Good morning,” hissed the cloak. “I’ve decided to remove your gag,” the tip of the dagger jiggled, pointing at what must have been the gag, below, or above, his chin, “since you’ve no doubt discovered you can’t do much more than whisper at this point.”</p><p></p><p>The cloak whirled away from him, and for a disturbing moment, he wanted to thank the evil shadow that had tortured him for hours he had lost track of. As the light of the morning crept into the window, he noticed that the shadow was rather short, for something he feared so greatly.</p><p></p><p>“I’m not terribly concerned if you know why I’ve tortured you all night. I do want you to know a few things about me though:” the cloaked devil spun about abruptly and began to pace over to him, wiggling the stiletto with each point for emphasis.</p><p></p><p>“I don’t know who you are, I don’t care about your life, I do enjoy inflicting pain on you, and I do know how to make it last for two more days, without killing you.”</p><p></p><p>He was trying not to sob, but the effort was mostly ineffective.</p><p></p><p>“If you would like it all to end, I need only one thing from you.” He mouthed the word please to the shadows of the cowl, wanting nothing more than to end his pain. “Percival Padfoot. Probably went by Percy.”</p><p></p><p>Shocked and eager to please his captor, the man shook his head to show he knew of the person the evil person behind the dagger was talking about. He roughly whispered the name he knew, though he thought he was shouting. “Percy… the dragon slayer.”</p><p></p><p>“Dragon slayer?” the form exclaimed with surprise. For a brief moment, the voice was not sinister, but that vanished. “Where did that stupid, stupid halfling go?”</p><p></p><p>He tried desperately to answer, and the form grew closer. It smelled of spice and whiskey. “Winter… haven.”</p><p></p><p>“Good. Was he alone?”</p><p></p><p>He shook his head, trying to say what he knew of the adventures the halfling had traveled with, but found himself crying again, instead.</p><p></p><p>“Now, now,” comforted the hooded figure, lowering the blade and putting a tiny, comforting hand to his cheek. The contact was oddly soothing, despite the open creases in his flesh burning at the small hand’s touch. A halfling hand.</p><p></p><p>“Slow down. Just describe those he is traveling with, and then I’ll kill you, quickly.”</p><p></p><p>The dark one continued to comfort the frantic human as he described the other travelers, telling him not to worry about dying, it wouldn’t be that bad.</p><p></p><p>Later that morning, Dorrin Feldroven, a Fallcrest gate guard stationed at the east most mornings, was found tortured to death in his private quarters.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Xorn, post: 4374598, member: 61231"] A blast of cold water crashed into the man’s face, an ecstasy of relief from the sweat and grime that had caked his skin for the last several hours, and an agony of panic as the water went up is mouth and nose as he thought he might drown, just trying to draw a breath. Coughing violently he strained to right himself, feeling the tight ropes cutting into the flesh of his wrists behind his back. Finally, after a few seconds of sputtering that felt like minutes, he managed to cough out enough water to draw a more or less clear breath. As his blurry vision fought to blink away the grease and blood that had run up is face into his eyes, he could see his captor, setting down a wooden pail. No, actually it was the chamber pot of his room. He looked down, mentally noting that he was actually looking up, and was horrified at what he saw. His position had not changed; he was still hanging from a rope secured to the heavy bed frame, trailing up to the thick central ceiling beam that extended from the center of the building to the walls, and down to his ankles. They were swollen and discolored, a hideous combination of purple and black, and in oddly thankful way, he couldn’t feel the pain that had been coming from his feet all night. His head was pounding, and he had trouble thinking clearly—his face felt like it was going to burst, and he had been hanging upside down since he had been drug out of bed up into the air. The ropes didn’t stop at his blackened feet though. After the knots secured around his ankles, two taut pieces of rope trailed to his hands, wrapped tightly around his wrists, so they were supporting as much of his weight as his legs. He had no doubt the flesh on his hands was black as well, but he could still feel them, in the form of a vague, pounding thrum of pain. Then the ropes continued to his throat, choking him thoroughly whenever he struggled, or tried to move either of his limbs. That hadn’t stopped him from moving throughout the night, as the cloaked figure that now floated across the floor on unseen legs had hurt him. They had been merciless, asked no questions, and never hesitated in their horrific deed, despite his muffled cries and weeping for mercy. That was when he noticed he didn’t have a gag in his mouth anymore. Frantically he tried to scream, but didn’t even hear his own voice, despite his pain wracked effort to call for help. The form stopped, that hideous, terrible face he had envisioned each time he passed out hiding beneath the shadow of the cowl it wore. A slender, tiny gloved hand rose out of the cloak, carrying a gleaming stiletto, adorned with various precious stones. He felt a well of panic, which he thought had been exhausted by this hour of his torture, but as the tip neared his throat, he began to weep uncontrollably, not for the first time this night. “Good morning,” hissed the cloak. “I’ve decided to remove your gag,” the tip of the dagger jiggled, pointing at what must have been the gag, below, or above, his chin, “since you’ve no doubt discovered you can’t do much more than whisper at this point.” The cloak whirled away from him, and for a disturbing moment, he wanted to thank the evil shadow that had tortured him for hours he had lost track of. As the light of the morning crept into the window, he noticed that the shadow was rather short, for something he feared so greatly. “I’m not terribly concerned if you know why I’ve tortured you all night. I do want you to know a few things about me though:” the cloaked devil spun about abruptly and began to pace over to him, wiggling the stiletto with each point for emphasis. “I don’t know who you are, I don’t care about your life, I do enjoy inflicting pain on you, and I do know how to make it last for two more days, without killing you.” He was trying not to sob, but the effort was mostly ineffective. “If you would like it all to end, I need only one thing from you.” He mouthed the word please to the shadows of the cowl, wanting nothing more than to end his pain. “Percival Padfoot. Probably went by Percy.” Shocked and eager to please his captor, the man shook his head to show he knew of the person the evil person behind the dagger was talking about. He roughly whispered the name he knew, though he thought he was shouting. “Percy… the dragon slayer.” “Dragon slayer?” the form exclaimed with surprise. For a brief moment, the voice was not sinister, but that vanished. “Where did that stupid, stupid halfling go?” He tried desperately to answer, and the form grew closer. It smelled of spice and whiskey. “Winter… haven.” “Good. Was he alone?” He shook his head, trying to say what he knew of the adventures the halfling had traveled with, but found himself crying again, instead. “Now, now,” comforted the hooded figure, lowering the blade and putting a tiny, comforting hand to his cheek. The contact was oddly soothing, despite the open creases in his flesh burning at the small hand’s touch. A halfling hand. “Slow down. Just describe those he is traveling with, and then I’ll kill you, quickly.” The dark one continued to comfort the frantic human as he described the other travelers, telling him not to worry about dying, it wouldn’t be that bad. Later that morning, Dorrin Feldroven, a Fallcrest gate guard stationed at the east most mornings, was found tortured to death in his private quarters. [/QUOTE]
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