faderift | closed.

OOC | Any pre-escape threads around the fortress.

OOC | Any pre-escape threads in the dungeon.

i. home sweet home

After all his years of Templaring, de-Templaring, and being a mercenary, this is Barrow's first time having actually been captured. It's quite novel, though unpleasant, but far be it from him to allow a negative attitude to ruin any new experience.
Largely responding to questions with other questions or direct, droll obfuscations, Barrow spends most of his time in the cell by checking in on the other two: Poesia, of whom he's fond if a bit distant these days, and Derrica, whom he realizes expressly stated she no longer wanted contact with him, but... circumstances are different.
Aren't they?

"All right love?" he asks, to one or the other, angling his head against the bars to try and see into the adjacent cell.

When he's not asking after them, he's whistling, or even singing, trying to keep spirits up.

ii. rack sweet rack

At first he wouldn't say anything useful, he'd just tell jokes or sing, even through the pain. But, as tough as he may be, and as resilient to pressure, even Barrow just ends up screaming when the situation is dire enough.
And it is: between being near pulled apart and the Waking Nightmare, the occasional Silencing he instinctively manages to pop in before it can do any real damage and the whipping he receives each time he does so, Barrow is reduced to a shivering mass each time he's left to himself.
On display for the other two, he has the presence of mind to try and keep a stiff upper lip, but it gets more difficult with each passing day, and it becomes increasingly difficult to tell the difference between the truth of what he sees and the spell being cast on his mind.

a. Constructive Criticism

"How sloppy you are," she says, as though she were talking to a careless child and not the man who'd just spent the better part of an hour crushing and breaking her bones. It's painful, of course, but hardly life threatening. His dreadful little curse is likewise so. She screams because it's a pleasant relief and because it makes their host step closer.

"Come, let me show you properly," she says, "I've so many ideas for you, you know. You have such lovely skin, I so dearly want to peel it away from your flesh. You'd make the most charming skinned pi-" The paralyzation is more annoyance then pain. Mostly, it's a game. "-g. I'd hang it on the horns of your festering little dragon like a sweetheart's ribbon. And then of course, your tee-" Faster this time, almost impressive. One... Two... Three... Four... She counts the minutes dutifully. "-th, I would pull them from your head. You would be alive still, of course, it would be a difficult trick I think, but I must have you watch when I press your teeth in her ey-"

One... Two... Three... Four... Her sweet voice does carry most wonderfully in their cozy little dungeon, even when he steps out of her cell to see the other two. Even when the others scream. "Come here, dear, come here. Let me show you."

b. Small Talk

She breaks on the second day. Cheerful, descriptive threats giving way to screams as the pain takes her. She cries very prettily. Lovely in her weeping and her begging when that wicked little curse subsides and she can do more than scream at the horrendous pain of it all. She begs as prettily as she cries and their host seems quite pleased with it.

"Please... Please..." She gasps, limp in her bounds. The words are earnest and truthful and their dear host steps closer. Closer... Close enough and she lunges forward. She aims for his neck, but misses and latches on to his cheek instead. She bites. She rips. The blood is hot in her mouth. The guard very nearly breaks her jaw when he hits her. She rewards him with her mouth at his wrist, blunt teeth that feel uncomfortably sharp ripping into veins.

This time she laughs when the wretched little curse takes her. Long and loud. And when it has settled and the spells have worn off, she is breathy and hoarse and laughing still. Her voice is full of a horrible pleasure when she calls to the other two: "Come now, my darlings, my dears, come now. How shall we hurt the little pigs, my darlings. How shall we make them bleed."

Poesia is not the most helpful in that moment, with his struggle in parsing between reality and spell. Her own torture has prompted a rather dramatic change in her, though perhaps not the one their lovely host had been hoping for. What humanity and charm she possessed has fallen away from her as though it had been little more than an Orlesian lady's mask. She stands in the cell and smiles and smiles and smiles.

She's singing right now, sweet and hoarse. "Little rabbit, little rabbit, can you see my piggy dear, can you see my piggy's throat so white and neat a-" They're gifted with a few minutes of silence, "-nd dear. Little rabbit, little rabbit, can you see my teeth? At the throat of my little pig, digging into meat-"

Another few minutes of silence and "How very rude you are, cutting me off while I'm singing to my bunny. Aren't they rude, bunny. How shall I hurt them, bunny."

Fuck off, Derrica wants to say.

But it's not Barrow's fault they're in here. It's certainly not Barrow's fault that they might die in this dark, sunless little room. She doesn't even think he can help the Silencing, though Derrica would very much like to pretend it's deliberate. But it's not fair to snap at him, when what she really wants to do is break the neck of the mage who's been crooning at her about the Elder One. She turns her face towards the bars, eyeing Barrow tiredly.

"I'm okay," she answers flatly. She might even be better than him, all things considered. "But I'm not your love."

She can draw one little line. It seems reasonable.

It's not that Poesia had ever seemed completely on the level. There'd been something off to begin with, but now—

Derrica can hear her sometimes, past the crackle of flame and her own screams. Poesia talks, gleeful and sweet and so helpful. They've been wasting Poesia all this time. She should have been a torturer. Surely there's some problem Riftwatch has that could have been solved by that skillset, and Poesia sounds as if she's terrifyingly inventive. The one solace in this Venatori mage's approach is the predictability. Even when he's stroking her damp brow and whispering about Corypheus while he freezes a limb to the point where Derrica can't feel it at all, or passes fire across her body to leave raw skin and blisters in the wake of his hand, it's predictable. Poesia sounds as if she has limitless ideas, the kind that can't be braced against.

When they lift Derrica bodily from the table to pitch her back into her cell, she's laughing. It's a quiet, miserable wheeze, breaking on a gasp as she's dumped onto the floor. But even laying there, she stretches a hand to clang her manacle against the bars.

"You're scaring them," she says, not bothering to make her address specific. There's only one person talking very specifically about how she'd peel flesh from bone here.

"Oh, they should be," Poesia says, easy as breathe. She doesn't have quite so much room in her cell to move about. They'd learned that lesson rather early on. Still, she leans against them in a casual stretch, letting them clang softly in response. "This is what I was made for, you know. I know how I would kill every one of them. Were I to escape as I am, I know how many of them I would kill before they killed me. I know which ones I would kill swiftly and I know which ones I would spend time with. It would be very silly of them to not be scared of me. How very, very silly of them to keep me alive."

Anticipation threads its way through her voice. A naked delight in killing that goes beyond a Reaver's bloodlust. "Let's play a game, darling. How would you have me kill."

Slowly, agonizingly, Derrica forces her fingers to close around the lowest bar of her cell door. The frozen flesh will warm in time. Derrica doesn't know what else to do for the dead, chilled hand but hold on tightly and wait.

Poesia would be forgiven for thinking Derrica wasn't interested in the game. There is a significant pause between the question and the answer. Derrica finds focusing difficult in the moment, some belated adrenaline blurring her thoughts. If she turns her head, she can just barely see the bright gleam of Poesia's hair. Even without being able to catch a glimpse of her face, Derrica knows the expression on it. It should unsettle her, but there's some comfort in the promise of retribution. She thinks of the guard that had gleefully slapped her face, and exhales hard.

"Slowly," comes Derrica's voice, ragged but steady. "There is one who carries a club I think you could take away from him very easily."

It hardly matters if Derrica wishes to play or not, but it pleases her when she does. She had taken up humming softly, composing a new song that was detailing how she would drape the entrails of the Venatori healer over an altar like a gift.

Her hum turns to one of delighted pleasure when Derrica speaks. "Ah, I know that one! He has very lovely eyes. I would break his elbows first, of course. Terribly difficult to wield a large weapon with broken elbows, you know. And then I would find one of the pins you use to hold your lovely hair and gently pierce each of his eyes." She sighs, pleased, "Three in each, I think."

Where did you come from? Derrica doesn't ask. What sort of place did Poesia live that taught her these things? Derrica knows what Dairsmuid taught her, what the templars broke open in her, but it's hard to guess at what Poesia was shaped from.

The question lingers for a moment while Derrica considers the picture Poesia is painting. There is a cut on the inside of her mouth from where she was hit. She can still taste the blood. The ache is a counterpoint to the dull burn in her hand, and the screech of agony every time she tries to move the blistering mess of her arm.

"One of them took my pins away," she says after a moment, breathless but determined to keep speaking. "You'd have to take them back first."

Assuming they weren't gone, given away, sold away or melted down. Derrica didn't want them back so badly, but she hated that any of these men had prospered from her things.

She would tell her if she asked. The commune's destruction has not been an painful void in her for years, but it was her Beloved's and that absence burns more than anything the Venatori meat could do to her. But Derrica does not ask and so Poesia does not say, though her Beloved has not been far from her mind since their capture.

"How rude of them!" The indignation is heart felt, in so much as Poesia has heart to feel with. "I will have to get them back for you. What a pity I never learned any sort of artisan skill or I could carve you some from their bones." She considers it a moment, "I would make them help, I think. Surely one of them must have some skill at it."

There is a pause, and a short, pained sound as Derrica twists up, pulls herself closer to the bars. It feels as if her skin is going to tear where the fire scorched, but it feels important to be upright as she makes this request.

"Bring me some of their bones anyway."

Her voice is fervent, sharpened by cool resolve. Is this the kind of low rage the Chantry feared being brought to bear?

"When we get out and you kill Comitanus, I want his hands."

Where I'm gonna put the escape log once it's cleaned up.

OOC | For all your glamping needs.

i. on salves and the application therein

To ease the burden of healing from Derrica's weary shoulders, Athessa immediately busies herself collecting elfroot from the immediate area, using a flat stone and a smooth rock as a makeshift mortar and pestle. Dried elfroot makes for good smoking, or can be powdered, but nothing beats fresh green root for grinding into a paste or--if armed with the knowledge--creating potions.

"Here," she says softly as she sets a portion of salve, wrapped in a leaf, beside whoever currently needs tending. "It's not much but it'll help."

When it comes time to offer the same to Derrica, Athessa sinks to sit beside her and hesitates briefly before speaking. As if she wanted to say something else, first. "How's your hand?"

ii. on the road in the rickety cart on the way home or thereabouts

Nigh inseparable from Derrica's side, Athessa sits beside her on the cart, arm gently draped around her shoulders. It's impossible to imagine any of them not being thoroughly exhausted, even those who did not endure torture at the hands of their gracious hosts.

Mostly, she watches the scenery pass by, or hums a tune quietly to herself. If she catches Bastien's eye, she'll offer him a small smile. Tired, sure, reassuring if she can manage it, with an undertone of uncomfortable vulnerability.

The words 'rabbit' and 'bunny' almost become torturous in themselves, correlated with That Smile and the violence that is either real or not, he can't tell anymore.
Lying stretched across the rack, it makes him feel even more like a roasting pig on a spit, his flesh all too exposed and already proven so vulnerable to their tormentor's whims. He's never felt so completely powerless before, and that in itself is more frightening than any physical harm.

"Stop," he whimpers to Poesia, a flash of panic invading his senses, making him pull instinctively on his restraints, which results in searing pain. He snarls wordlessly, half-screaming.

He's not at his worst, not yet-- tired, spooked, but still managing. He casts his eyes downward with a little nod.
"Sorry." Much like the Silencing, the verbal tics come automatically.

"...Athessa came in while you were dozing. Undercover. They'll have us out of here soon." An attempt at a reassuring smile.

Barrow is trying to sleep and he hates all of this, thanks.

i. evening

The only thing Barrow wants is a cigarette, and he's furious he doesn't have one.
Well, that and a shirt maybe.
In fact, his entire, notoriously affable demeanor has turned brooding and stormy, and he stays as far away from the others as he can manage, seeking privacy or perhaps just solitude as he lies back and stares at the sky.
He won't snap at anyone, of course-- he's never intentionally rude-- but he gives the profound impression that he would rather not be bothered, and that in itself is quite unusual.

ii. traveling

He walks as often as he's able, resisting offers to ride in the cart unless met with absolute insistence. Barrow's mood seems to have shifted from quiet anger to total apathy, and he is still uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn as they make their way back.

i. Transitional Periods

Poesia does not sleep, though neither does she seem ill at ease. She only hums sometimes (snatches of tunes Derrica and Barrow will find familiar from the number she composed in her cell) and she watches her companions with the same keen, predatory attention she's worn since they were pulled from the dungeons. Mostly she watches the dark surrounding their little hiding place with an air of patience. When she smiles and speaks, it's uncomfortably stilted, like a creature who's trying on the manners of a human.

And yes, she does still have one of Comintanus' severed hands. When she isn't watching the dark or her companions, she amuses herself with curling and stretching the fingers into different poses until the joints stiffen too much.

ii. Please Use Caution

Once they're on the road, she sleeps. Wrapped up in whatever fabric or hay she can find and curled up in a tight ball. She doesn't move to eat or do much of anything and whenever someone moves too near, a single eye will slit open and a low snarling growl begins to build from deep in her chest.

ii b. The Restorative Effects of Naps

It's well into the evening, nearing the docks when Poesia finally uncurls herself and stretches elegantly. She smiles at the person nearest to her and it does not stretch too wide nor too sharp across her face.

"Goodness, that was quite the adventure, wasn't it," she says, her silver bell voice holding no trace of the hoarse, deranged laughter from the dungeon.

"Of course, darling," Poesia says, and it's a loving purr of a promise. The Chantry might have feared Dearrica's rage, but Poesia revels in it. This is the sort of command she was made for, after all.

Fortunately, Bastien has the sense and the sensitivity not to say looks like I missed all the fun to a group of people that looks (on average) this completely fucking slammed. He had his own adventure earlier the day before, anyway—though the only evidence is some bruises hidden beneath his clothes—and since then he hasn't slept. So he's all business. Getting everyone situated, sorting who needs to ride from who can walk, handing over the reigns to whoever seems too tired to walk but awake enough to to manage the pair of mules pulling the cart, passing off a full water skin so it can make the rounds.

It's only after they've been moving for a little while with the road behind them quiet and clear that he asks whoever is closest, "How bad was it?"

[ Just one thread pls because hearing the story told multiple times doesn't sound that fun, but multiple people/threadjacking is rad. ]

Edited 2020-07-27 02:24 (UTC)

"My poor dear," Poesia sighs. It perhaps sounds sympathetic, she would hardly know. Words are poison and she drips them slowly into the ears of companions and tormentors alike. "Hush, my poor dear, you must let go."

It's the words she heard when she writhed on the ground, the dragon's blood burning it's way down her throat, the visions overpowering. She hasn't a clue who said those things to her.

"You mustn't fight it, dear."

Walking alongside the cart, he smiles back—also tired, also reassuring, with an undertone of understanding. Just for a moment. It fades quickly, and he comes closer. Close enough that the turning wheel occasionally brushes his trouser leg where it's a little uneven and wobbly, and close enough he can reach out and gently tap her cheek beneath the scab that's forming there, twice, with a finger usually twitched or tapped by bards in need of more information.

His hand is very steady, for the record, despite the unsynchronized wobbles caused by his feet and the cart both traveling over an uneven dirt road.

closed.

spies.

prisoners.

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gentle additional cw for blood and body horror cus it be like that sometimes

ii

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10/10 good content

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log meat placeholder.

aftermath.

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shortly after pick-up:

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ii.