[closed] tiptoe through the tulips

[altusimperius]

WHO: Benedict, Wren, James, Simon, Hanzo, some new friends
WHAT: The time has finally come to return Benedict to his people. Something maybe goes a little bit wrong.
WHEN: Early Bloomingtide
WHERE: southern Tevinter
NOTES: Warnings for violence.

Three Templars, a magister's son, and a Shimada cross the border from Hasmal to the Tevinter Imperium: it sounds like a joke, and in many ways it probably is, but to Benedict it just seems like overkill.
His mother requested the Templars, ostensibly for protection against the southern apostates driven mad by their little war; Hanzo, a man whose name he recognizes but is too young to properly remember, presumably tagged along for the practical benefits of visiting Minrathous without the Inquisition's grandeur.

Magister Calpurnia Artemaeus awaits them at the family home, and all they have to do is get there. Surely the nightmare will soon be over.

Comments

[altusimperius]

A small rock is chucked at James from one of the riders behind the cart, who can see everything. "Knock it off."

[judgemewhole]

It's not easy around the gag, and that rock does nothing to improve his temper, but James is if nothing a man who is all right being a target. Let the others do something sneaky.

So he lifts his head, and muffledly says around his gag, "Then Shut Up. Maker, you're all annoying."

Comes more more like "Ttt shhh pp. Mkrrr yrese ull afhahyaaan."

[eruit]

Hanzo wakes up with his arms and legs tied. It's not something he's experienced before, but the gentle movement of a horse under him is enough to let him know just what is going on. He recognises the gait of a horse moving and he realises, quickly, that their mission has not been as successful as they had hoped it might be - not when he's thrown over the back of an animal like this.

His first thought after that is for Storm Bow and a wave of panic rushes through him.

Carefully, he lifts his head, tilting his gaze despite the tiredness he feels and the soreness of his body. Any glimpse he can get of his bow will be enough, even if he's listening to everything that their captors are saying. He will get his vengeance soon enough.

[limier]

Bodies jostle. The rock ricochets, pings off a shoulder. Wren finally opens her eyes, half-lidded and drifting cross. They slip closed again in a seasick loll, bumps in the road occasionally causing them to shudder and shut without focus.

It’s not a bad impression. It’s not entirely an impression at all, but as coherence comes, it seems counterproductive to show. Leave Norrington to that work; he’s already proved their captors attentive. She curls onto herself so far as the cramped cart allows, hands slack in ready view. Her face mashes against the floor, feeling out the damp.

Sweat. Sweat, and not blood, or there’d be more of it by now. They must have dressed Ashlock’s punctures. Maker willing, they dug out the heads first.

Opportunists? Specialists, if so. An ambush too well-planned to be entirely chance. You catch all manner of travelers along this route; there’d have been less risky prey. That they’d a mage to them speaks to some manner of preparation.

From the size of herself against the cart’s wall, she can’t think Shimada or Artemaeus have been tossed in with them. Recognizably citizens, and one so obviously a mage, so plainly well-bred. With luck, they don’t know the full value of what they’ve acquired: the Inquisition won’t pay ransom, but North of the border others are too like to take an interest.

With luck, this lot aren’t looking for that sort of attention. With luck, they won’t be split for a time yet; with luck, this won’t go so long for want of lyrium —

With luck they wouldn’t be here at all. She watches from glimpses out the cracks of her eyes.

It's going to be a long trip.

[paladingus]

Bandages or no, the blood Simon's already lost keeps him out cold for longer than the others. There won't be any escape attempts from him as he wakes, not when the position his wounded arm has been tied in results in breathtaking pain at the slightest tentative movement, and the state of his leg wouldn't permit any movement faster than a hobble.

He exhales an uncharacteristically virulent oath, lost as it is in the gag, and tries to lie still.

[altusimperius]

The journey continues like this for what seems like years, though it's really just into the early morning hours. Seeking shelter in a secluded glade, the company comes to a halt and begins to make camp, temporarily ignoring the prisoners.
They pitch their tents, build their cookfire, and have a quick meal between them with quiet, limited talk, and it isn't until they're finally wrapping up that someone-- the big man who took out Hanzo-- comes over to the cart with a bowl, spoon, and dipper of water.
"Rise an' shine," he says in a sing-song, comparatively unthreatening voice, setting down the bowl so he can first attend to Hanzo, whom he bends to pull into a sitting position so he can tug down the gag and offer him some water. "We were a little worried there, at first," he continues conversationally, moving from one person to another, gagging each one again as soon as they've taken their fill (or refused it), "you fought well, didn't think we'd get the upper hand back. Templars, right?" Though he's got a scarf tied round the lower half of his face, the man's eyes are unexpectedly kind, curious.

Meanwhile, Hanzo and Benedict are hauled off their horse, landing with a painful thud each and dragged to a tent set up apparently just for them. Benedict, now wide awake, makes his displeasure known with a great deal of struggling and frantic, muffled protest, but his captor pays little mind. Hanzo's is glad she didn't get that one.

[judgemewhole]

James has quieted down - not because he's happy but they at least complied with Shutting Up. He's going to have to figure out how to get out of these ropes sooner rather than later. He also doesn't refuse the water - they're going to need it - and when the gag is out of his mouth and he takes his drink, he swallows and speaks quickly, before he can be gagged again.

The man's statement has, after all, caught his interest. Beyond that, they all used Templar skills before the group. "Yes we are - are you a Brother? And please make sure our young friend here gets two ladles. He's lost a lot of blood - he needs to keep more fluids in his body."

[eruit]

As much as he might like to protest, Hanzo knows that turning down anything that might help him maintain any kind of strength would be foolish. He drinks the water when it is given, watching each and every single person he can see throughout the camp, eyes devouring the shape and movements of their bodies. He will recognise them again in the future, that is what he promises himself, and he does nothing more than allow himself to be manhandled as they're moved from the horses and dragged off to a tent.

Interesting. Clearly, their Tevinter heritage means something. Of course it does - no one ignores anyone from Tevinter, no matter where they themselves might be from.

What is more important to him than anything else is trying to figure out where they've put his Storm Bow. He is familiar with the spirits housed within, now, and he's desperate to reach out for them, to make sure they're safe - and, more importantly, to make sure that they have been unnoticed by their captors. The Bow is his heirloom, true, but it means more to him than that; the Honours residing inside it are his dearest and only friends.

[limier]

Wren slumps halfway, waits until he's close. Until Norrington has started to speak and the man's face is low enough to look into kind eyes,

To smash her forehead abruptly for his nose with all the force she can muster.

It's not an escape attempt so much as a everyone shut up attempt. They're obviously Templars, but she'd sooner not anyone start running their mouths for free.

Also, fuck this guy.

[paladingus]

Simon, for his part, does not need to be told to shut up, because he's still gagged. The dirty cloth has sucked what feels like every drop of moisture from his mouth and throat, and he's beginning to feel dizzy, but he still has the wherewithal to raise his head and give Wren the most incredulously appalled look he can manage with half his face muffled.

[judgemewhole]

Just mirror that look, and you'll have the same expression that James has on his face when he looks at Wren from the other side. If he could move, he might consider doing something like kicking her, but as it stands he steels himself for the bullying punches and kicks from their captors, and the gag being yanked back into place.

He is prepared to kick out at the hoard as best he can, so they'll take their time hitting him and not the other two.

[altusimperius]

James gets a bemused look from the man as his gag is replaced, and though it's possible his instructions might have been heeded, now they'll never know. Wren's head connects, albeit at a non-ideal angle, which startles their captor more than hurts him, and he stumbles back with a "shit!"
It immediately gets the attention of the others, and the mouthy mage heads over with the archer to look inquiringly at the big one. "Getting punchy," he explains, nodding to Wren.

"Guess we've got a volunteer to go first then," says the mage, deadpan, "lucky you, we weren't even going to do this until tomorrow." He nods toward Wren, and the archer grabs a fistful of her hair, dragging her off the cart to land hard on the ground. He and the big guy pick her up by her shoulders and legs, holding fast in the likely event she thrashes, and proceed to take her over toward the tents and the campfire.
At the very least, there's no jeering or laughter involved; they're all tired, and whatever they're going to do likely relates more to business than pleasure. [in other words Don't Worry I wouldn't spring gross shit on you]

Hanzo is able to spot the tip of his bow, which rests in a pile with the other weapons, still in the pushcart and stashed over behind a bush. No harm has come to it, at least.
Benedict follows his gaze, then looks to him imploringly.

[eruit]

His attention is caught by Storm Bow immediately - he does his very best to school his features, turning his eyesight over to where Wren is being dragged away from the others, likely as a punishment for her actions. Hanzo is not entirely sure what it is that he is going to be able to do, bound and gagged as he is, but the look that Benedict throws at him is desperate if nothing else.

It is quite amusing, to see how things change.

Slowly, eyes drinking in the area around them, Hanzo shifts, watching. They're distracted by Wren and Hanzo waits, looking at the rest of his fellows before he nods sharply at Benedict - enough to give him some courage, at least, and enough that he might be able to begin to make his way over towards his bow and their weapons, to release the spirits inside.

[limier]

There’s enough time for a look of vicious self-satisfaction at the impact, the curse. It's replaced shortly by the indignity of a slack-faced fall.

Under other circumstances it might be funny; here and now it hurts, old joints jarred and black curls torn to dangle from the archer’s knuckles. The plight of Average Joe Slaver goes unreflected on, as true to expectation, Wren does her futile best to make their job as difficult as possible.

In the end, it’s not very. One furious glance catches Hanzo, Benedict, as they pass. Any focus she’s previously spent to divining their intentions, or guarding their little group is gone. Everyone's on their own just now: Take or leave the distraction.

[paladingus]

If Wren has accomplished nothing else, she has at least given the rest of them more of an inkling of what's in store, though Simon can only guess at the details and hope the Maker is watching over them all. He can't see where she's being taken--

--but he can see Hanzo, from the corner of his eye, and it gives him the slightest ray of hope. There's nothing he and James can possibly do to facilitate their own escape, bound the way they are, but if he kicks up the kind of fuss that can be sustained, maybe...

He thrashes in his bonds in an attempt to make enough noise to catch the attention of whoever is left, doing the best impression of a fit that he can possibly summon up from his memories of a mage back in Ansburg who was prone to them. If the slavers have gone to the trouble of dressing his wounds to fix him up for market, he expects that they've got at least enough investment in his health to come and see what's wrong with him.

[judgemewhole]

Something in James cracked at the sight of the slaver dragging Wren away from them by her hair. A memory unlocked, unbidden and unwelcome -

- Mother dragged from the coach by her hair, screaming to him and Nicholas to 'Run, Run!' Sounds of Father trying to hold them off with a sword -

- and suddenly he's putting up as big a Fuss as Simon. Trying to tear through the gag with his teeth, struggling hard against his bindings, trying to find a stone or something to cut himself free and snarling. Snarl inside his head, through the gag, just this guttural, murderous sound as his green eyes flashed wildly and he tried to pitch himself forward.

[altusimperius]

Taking small reassurance from Hanzo's nod, Bene nods back, but his attention is immediately diverted by the sound of a commotion and Ser Wren being hauled across the camp.
Two of the slavers approach the Templars still remaining in the cart, and the blade of a knife is quickly held to Simon's throat, likely nicking him as he thrashes. "Keep going," warns the female voice of the blade's bearer; he's like to slash his own throat if he does.
The archer has returned to watch over James, arms folded, letting him rage himself out and watching with dull curiosity. It's nothing they haven't seen before.

Wren is brought toward the fire, where one of the smaller of their captors has been laying what appears to be a brand across the flames. It's a bit of a rush job, since, as they said, they weren't planning on doing it just yet, but she's kept firmly planted to the ground by the big one's knee on her back as they all wait, and wait, and wait, for the metal to heat.
When, at last, the ringleader is satisfied by its progress, he wraps a cloth around the handle and picks up the searing brand. "Right," he calls boredly, and the man outweighing Wren carefully shifts her to reveal the back of the specified hand.
"Sorry love," he mutters to her, "it'll go quick."

It's pressed in mercilessly, just above her knuckles, and though she can't see it at the moment, the brand looks like this:

[limier]

Waiting is the worst part.

She tries a few more kicks before the grind of knee against spine grows too heavy. A tired business then of watching the fire, of readying for the strike. Her face flattens, jaw grits, but preparation can’t smother reflex for the sudden touch of heat — struggling again now in blind compulsion.

It’s one thing to burn; another not to flee or fight it. Instinct pounds at the back of her mind, self-preservation clanging out the stupid order to pull away. No. This is the worst part.

The sweet smell of burning flesh, and a moment’s misplaced empathy for the beasts of her youth. For other, human faces, spiked with the ugly sear of ozone. Unbidden, for Amsel,

For the others still behind her.

Pain's almost helpful. Makes it tricky to think. Her breaths come wheezing about the gag gnashed in her teeth, muffle the dull whine in her throat. Her knuckles flex only to send burned skin rippling, and this is the worst part. Traced into nerves, she could picture it with eyes shut tight, but can’t transfer to shape. Imagination: Some hulking ovoid thing, a monstrous egg.

Nausea swells, and by the time they’re done, she’s done fighting. Two more to go, and — no.

No, that’s definitely the worst part.

[altusimperius]

Once the work on Wren is done, she's set aside, jostled away from the fire to be watched by the slaver who also keeps an eye on Hanzo and Benedict. They're not doing anything interesting, probably conspiring or something equally pathetic, and she's got dinner to eat, so she spectates with detached boredom as the same two as before go back to get Simon.
It takes several of them to carry him (especially if he tries thrashing again), but only just the one to give him the same brand as Wren, in much the same manner.

James they left for last, on account of what seemed to be a real meltdown, but even he is simply flung up over the big slaver's shoulder and carried like a sack of potatoes to the fire and the branding iron. After he receives the treatment, all three of them are positioned such that they have a slaver on either side of them, a blanket over them for what may be meant to pass for a modicum of kindness, and a long morning to lie there and think about their situation.

Blessedly for Hanzo and Benedict, at least for now, their captors are too tired to bother them further.