[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

[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.