closed | nessum prison blues

[cozen]

WHO: Bastien, Byerly, Talin, Tav, Teren, and Vlast
WHAT: Prison break
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere (October) 9:50
WHERE: Southern Tevinter. Not actually Nessum–the post title is a joke—but somewhere in the wilderness not too far from there.
NOTES: OOC post. General violence cw.

The trap is not immediately apparent. They're met by a man dressed as their contact, Georgios, was meant to be dressed. Maybe the clothes are a little too big on him—but the People of the Silent Plains have bigger things to worry about than careful tailoring. Maybe his manner is a little wary and skittish, but he's a freedom fighter on the outskirts of a war zone meeting a group of strangers, some of them wholly alien, to escort to the People's hiding place.

And maybe the plan was meant to go better than this. Maybe the Vints waiting at the end of the road with their grenades and telekinetic prison spells planned to mount a more organized attack, neat and swift, once everyone had been lured into long-parched desert ravine ahead.

But something gives it away first. "Georgios" grows a little too anxious on the approach; the wind catching his jacket and lifting it enough to show a flash of a bloodstain on the back of his shirt that's too dark and too maroon not to be from earlier this same day. A glimpse, if nothing else, of one of the people lying in wait ahead of them, something in their posture that twigs as too tense, not quite right for a lookout protecting a hide-out and only seeing an expected group of visitors on the approach. Regardless of what tips various members of the group off, it's enough forewarning for them refuse to be led quietly into the corral that's been set up for them.

Half a chase, half a fight. The grenades and dirty magic tricks still come out. So do more drastic measures: arrows, fire, the blunt sides of heavy swords. Threats to cut the throats of whomever's been caught first if whomever's still fighting doesn't lay down their weapon. One way or another, in the end, everyone's wrangled into a wagon, hands bound and heads covered with sacks to obscure their view of where they're being taken. No gags, though. There's no one out here to hear them.

Comments

captured!

[cozen]

OOC | This top-level is for jail cell threads. Feel free to make your own top-levels beneath it for whatever talking/crying/etc. you desire. People are being kept two to a cell, but they'll be moved around to different cells, so combos can vary. Plus there are only bars separating anyone from everyone else.

The only clues as to where they are the nonvisual: the persistent dusty wind, the absence of the ambient bustling of a town or any voices aside from those of their captors, the brief duration of the journey. They're not going far. Just a slightly different place in the middle of nowhere than they planned to be. They're hauled out of the wagon in a place with more voices, a heavy gate raised and lowered with a creaking chain. The scent of something roasting in the courtyard to spare anyone an indoor fire in these temperatures. Being hauled through the echoing stone hallways and down a flight of stairs takes less time than it could have, in a bigger place. This is only an outpost.

The sacks come off as they're pushed into one of the three cells arranged in a half-circle at one end of a long room. Then too comes off any armor or outer layers. Any sending crystal that wasn't destroyed in the desert to prevent its capture along with them. Any bags, anything in pockets. Certainly any weapons.

What quickly becomes apparent is that this job was only planned so far in advance and had more to do with good luck than brilliance. They happened on Gregorios waiting to make contact with someone in the desert; they didn't know who he was waiting to meet. That it's a pack of Riftwatchers and anchor-bearing rifters has caused a stir. They're not used to having prisoners. They only leave one guard at a time, and sometimes the guard nods off or steps out of the room to talk to a friend. They don't know what they're supposed to be doing with their unexpected prize yet, and getting word too and from one of the less sad, small, isolated Tevinter camps will take time.

In the meantime, there's Viator. He's of average height and scrawny build, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, hairline receding and eyes sharp. After several hours of waiting he begins having them brought one at a time into an adjacent room that was obviously not set up as an interrogation facility until after their arrival. This is Viator's first time questioning people under threat of pain and dismemberment. That's clear. Now and then he literally pauses to consult a book on the subject. He's not a natural—his temperament is unsteady, his methodology inconsistent. But he's very eager to get something out of them before the big brass arrives. Then they'll see.

[doneisdone]

It's common for Teren to look angry-- it might even be her default expression-- but there's something about being stripped down in this fashion: weapons gone, armor gone, bags, all the many, many pointy tricks she had up her sleeve being removed that has her all but radiating flame from where she sulks against the makeshift prison wall. Reduced to naught but a skinny old woman with a dark braid unwound from its bun and hanging over her shoulder, her homicidal gaze burns holes into whomever happens to be standing (or sleeping) watch.

She hasn't said a word since they arrived; her teeth are gritting too tightly, for one thing. For another, it would be too easy to let on that she thinks they should've kept fighting, should've let a throat be cut for the greater victory. The lot of them deserved to die for how easily they were overcome, how stupidly that transpired.
But dying like this? That's unacceptable. That's insulting.

[cozen]

Bastien hardly ever looks angry, and certainly not now. He looks defeated. When spoken to by the guards he tries to muster up good-humored, cooperative manners without meeting their eyes. Hours after they've been deposited in their cells, there's still blood crusted in his mustache and the crevices around his nose, and he's cradling the useless arm attached to his dislocated shoulder.

Then the guard on duty starts snoring, head tilted back against the wall behind her stool. Bastien watches her for a few seconds, searching for signs of faking, before lifting his arm and maneuvering it to return ball to socket as swiftly as if he'd practiced it in a mirror a dozen times before getting captured. He doesn't wince. And without moving from where he's seated he starts creeping his hand along the stones that make up the wall. Feeling the mortar for gaps, tapping a fingernail to test for hollow cavities he only has a hope of hearing with his good ear pressed against the wall. That means turning his head, which in turn means looking at Teren.

The smile he aims at her is much smaller and much sharper than the one he's dredged up to perform miserable compliance for the guards.

"That can't be good for your health," he murmurs—the rage. Seems stressful. Never mind if he's as tightly wound as anyone (or more so) underneath the act; hypocrisy is his right as an Orlesian.

[doneisdone]

"What is," Teren snaps back, but is distracted by Bastien's maneuver, her eyes narrowing as they shift from him to the guard. She's sore, bruised, in more pain than she lets on, but she takes this opportunity to creep over to the door of the cell and reach through, light fingers straining for the guard's belt. She can't even see it that well, is hoping to feel for keys or a pin or anything that can be used, only to be interrupted by the door from the hallway swinging open.

Viator steps through, catches sight of her before Teren snakes her hand back in-- "a volunteer?" he cheerfully remarks, the sound of his voice enough to rouse the guard, who stands to attention.
Teren slinks backward, bristling like a feral cat, preparing to fight as they approach the cell.

[cozen]

When the door opens, Bastien stops testing the wall behind him for loose bricks, his arms settling down into their previous defeated slump. The recently-dislocated shoulder looks useless again, handled gingerly as he squirms his way into standing with only his legs and his other arm.

"Come on," he says, without much force behind it. He's not being anyone forceful for them. He's being someone who believes they've been beaten, friendliness and gallantry half-crushed beneath the weight of that knowledge. "She's an old woman. Don't..."

[doneisdone]

A click of the tongue as Viator unlocks the cage, enters with a chiding look to Bastien.
"Sorry, grandmama," he offers, and actually seems to mean it a little bit as he reaches for the old woman's wrist: and he grips it successfully, only to be yanked toward her as Teren's other hand snakes out to punch him sharp-knuckled in the throat.

The guard is certainly awake now, racing in to tackle her down so Viator can make his stumbling, wheezing retreat.

[bouchonne]

Viator, it should be noted, stumbles back rather unwarily. He's close to the bars of Byerly's cell. It doesn't seem like the most dangerous mistake in the world, all things considered - after all, Byerly has seemed quite useless so far. And By takes advantage of that, thrusting his arm out through the gap in the bars and grabbing for Viator's ankles.

Viator trips, arms windmilling. He falls hard on his back, balding head smacking painfully into the stone behind him.

[cozen]

One, two seconds of sudden chaos, and through them Bastien's running an abstract, instinctive calculation: is this the moment? Are the odds of success here worth ruining the effort he's put so far into framing himself as someone none of them need to keep their guard up for? Is providing back-up for Teren's snarling lash-out worth cutting off any hope of surprising them later—maybe after he's finished methodologically wiggling all the bricks and has, say, someone's hidden fork? Or at least a brick—

Byerly's interference changes the math. Some of it. The odds of success, maybe. The apportionment of blame for the attempt, if it fails, and who might be punished for it, almost certainly.

Bastien moves without another instant of hesitation. Still some hedging; he's less coordinated than he could be, stumbling on his push away from the wall, making his collision with the guard who's launching toward Teren look more like a dumb rush of inexperienced heroics that happens to get lucky and crash them both into the bars.

[doneisdone]

All moments are The Moment if you have fun and believe in yourself, both of which Teren might do a little too much, but it's served her so far. Kind of.

Bastien takes the brunt of the guard's weight, allowing her to sidestep the attack with a glance to her cellmate that might, if one squints, be interpreted as grateful; Teren is quick and good with blades, but physically robust she is not. Perhaps she owes him one, and Byerly besides.

She doesn't linger on it, taking the granted opportunity to nick the guard's sword out of its scabbard from behind and slip it around in front of his throat, with a fistful of hair as she wrenches his head back. The blade presses against his jugular, but doesn't cut deeply, not yet.

She meets Bastien's eyes again, prompting. You're the talker. Tell him what to do.

[bouchonne]

Of all the prisoners, Byerly probably does seem like the one who'd be most likely to break under torture. Teren is tough as nails, after all; Qunari are Qunari; elves can famously endure; and Bastien is a commoner. Byerly, on the other hand, is thin and foppish and clearly highborn, and therefore seems much more fragile.

And to their captors, it does seem to be the case. The moment he's in the interrogation room, he babbles like a fool. Any threat or hint of injury brings forth a new flood of words, accompanied by trembling and by tears. "Don't hurt me, please," Byerly begs, every time, just before sharing a strategic mixture of verifiable truths and unverifiable lies. He's telling them things that they already know, and telling them next to nothing that they don't.

The spymaster who trained him was many things, but he was not a fool. And he did not train a fool.

His apparent compliance has gotten him rewards from their captors. This time, as he's returned blubbering to the cell, he has an apple in his hands. The cell door is locked; then the guard retreats, and Byerly's tears dry up.

"Here," he says softly, holding the apple to his cellmate. "Take it."

[tadpoled]

Tav hates seeing anyone struggle like this. Watching Byerly upset makes Tav's own heart ache. There's no judgment from Tav when he returns and shakes his head at the offer of the apple.

"You take it," Tav replies. "I won't need it for a while longer."

Not that elves can go without food indefinitely, but Tav has ventured through the wilds and not starved. That said, nearly all of Tav's multitudes of freckles are now hidden by bruising. Not his first rodeo with torture and not his first rodeo with holding firm.

"We'll get out of here," Tav attempts to reassure.

[bouchonne]

"One way or another." Byerly's smile is edged and cynical. "Maybe walking out, and maybe carried out."

If Tav isn't going to take the apple, Byerly certainly isn't going to force him. He takes it and starts eating it — slowly, making it last, avoiding making contact with the burn that's been seared into his palm by the torturer. Even apparent compliance hasn't spared him all pain.

"Only time will tell."

[cozen]

From beyond the bars on Byerly's other side, Bastien says, "Walking."

He says it under his breath. He has his chin tipped down. His eyes have been closed, until now, aside from a sleepy, miserable but unconcerned glance up when Byerly was escorted back in. Whenever they're looking—the guards, especially Viator—he's taken care not to look more concerned about Byerly than about any of the others. No need to hand them another weapon.

But the sweet smell of an apple blooming through the stale, dusty air is a good excuse for perking up and looking closer at what's going on in the adjacent cell, so he does. He also slides his hand through the bars and holds it out expectantly.

[bouchonne]

"The optimist tempts fate with his incautious words," Byerly replies. Likewise, he's done his best to seem utterly indifferent to what happens to Bastien, even as he craves nothing more than reaching his hand out to the neighboring cell so that he might hold his beloved's hand.

He takes a lingering bite of the apple, pressing his lips to its skin, imagining how Bastien's lips will touch the same spot. And that brings some small comfort to him.

Byerly is, horribly, a grotesque romantic. Thank the Maker he largely keeps it to himself.

The apple is handed over. "Don't take too much of it."

[doneisdone]

Though she doesn't move a muscle, Teren's silent vigil is interrupted by the brief flicker of her gaze toward the apple, and those passing it around.
When Byerly hands it back, she looks forward again, unmoving.

[cozen]

"Don't take too much of it," Bastien echoes in a mocking mumble. Their current guard might take away from that the idea that he doesn't care for Byerly, because she's busy shining her boots—or someone's boots, anyway—and doesn't look up to catch the flicker of affection on his face as he says it.

Unfortunately, he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head anymore than the guard has eyes in the top of hers. He misses Teren's glance while he's looking at Byerly, putting the apple to his mouth, scraping his teeth along the edges of the bite Byerly already took, leaving one bigger bite instead of a second new bite in his wake, and coming away with paper-thin shreds of fruit in his mouth.

He holds them there, sweet on his tongue. He glances over at Teren, but in the face of stoniness, it's By he tries to hand the apple off to.

"D'accord. The worst pain you have ever felt and lived to tell about," he says, in much the same tone he'd prompt everyone to share their first kiss or their favorite season. Only a little more tired. And slightly garbled by the apple he's still holding in his mouth, unchewed. "Tav?"

[tadpoled]

Tav glances down at the burn on Byerly's hand, wishing he had access to his healing magic, or even just some bandages from his pack, right about now. Looking to the others, he wishes there was some way to help them, even if just to lift their spirits.

"Probably having my eye plucked out," Tav sighs, tapping his cheek under his milky-white left eye. "Got it put back, but can't see out of it any more."

Gale had most definitely not been pleased with Tav's offer to volunteer for such an experiment.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

They don't move Vlast much if they don't have to. Twice they tried to drag Vlast for questioning. Even with his wounds, including a bloodied stump where his right horn had been, the "Qunari" had slipped his restraints once, and straight up broke them a second time before the guards managed to subdue him each time. He lost the horn when he gored one guard. The makeshift leather muzzle around his mouth came when he snapped a man's wrist between his jaws, nearly taking the hand off.

...This is one clearly meant for the experts, so other than checking to make sure the chains still hold him, no one goes near Vlast anymore.

He doesn't speak when a prisoner is shoved unceremoniously into his cell; he just watches from where he's shackled, waiting for any chance to charge their captors. It doesn't come, unfortunately. The chains hold him fast and the only sound from him is the ominous creak of metal, before the door quickly slams shut.

Alone with his cellmate, Vlast lets out a snarl.

"Craven little mice scurrying abot. They will pay for this!"

[doneisdone]

Deposited on the floor of Vlast's cell is the heap of rags and bony limbs formerly known as Teren von Skraedder, who has spent the last however-many-hours being rendered into this state for her trouble.

Blood drips from her mouth (not all of it hers) as her swollen eyes open into slits, focusing blearily on Vlast with a sort of distant appreciation; she coughs, and a bit more blood follows.

"Your horn," she remarks, slurring the words with cracked lips, "how far can you angle your head?" There's a glint of something ridiculous in her eye, almost like amusement, or like she's had some manner of deranged idea.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

He watches the heap stir and shift into some semblance of coherent shape; he dimly recognizes her in that way he's getting better at telling humans apart - the ways he never bothered with back in his own world. Oft times they were specks far below, living out their lives, fleeting and barely pinging his curiosity.

This one had the... horse. Unsettling and uncanny ungulates. He's glad they went extinct in his world; he wishes they would here too. Maybe then Thedas will have the sense to start domesticating raptors.

He catches the glint of cunning on her face and very nearly smiles behind his muzzle.

"You have a plan." A statement, not a question. Any idea, however deranged, is a welcome respite from the itch of his own drying blood, and the stink of a budding infection.

"How far do you need me to angle my head...?"

He'll suffer any pain or indignity he needs to get free. He'll burn this place down if it's the last thing he ever does.

[doneisdone]

"We'll see," Teren grunts, beginning to drag herself over by the elbows and knees, staining the stone below her with a trail of blood as she goes.

One thin hand pulls at his shackled wrist to inspect it, seeing how far they can extend the qunari's arm, what range of motion he can be granted.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

It's not far and his wrists are a bloody mess under the iron where the shackles have rubbed him raw. After the first time he broke his bonds, they learned to give him as little leverage as possible so he wouldn't pull the damned things right out the wall. A rampaging Qunari is one thing - a rampaging Qunari with a make-shift chain flail is another matter entirely.

(There are signs that the chains won't hold forever - hairline cracks in the stone suggest Vlast's constant struggling may yet yield results in a day or two. The problem is, they may not have a day or two.)

"If you mean to pick it, I already tried. Snap the tip off if you think you'll have better luck."

That will at least grow back. He's lost all hope for the other horn.

[doneisdone]

A throaty, humorless laugh emerges, followed by a wet cough and blood spat on the ground.

"How am I meant to snap the tip off," Teren remarks, almost amusedly-- have you seen that fucking thing-- and wiggles into a better position before beckoning Vlast to lower his head. His horn is likely too thick around to make a difference, but at least they'll be able to say they've both tried it.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

"A rock...?" he suggests. There's... less of a growl underlying his tone. Not exactly the usual quippy fare most are used to, but by his standards, it's positively lighthearted banter.

He lowers his head, letting Teren manipulate it as she sees fit. There's not exactly much else to do, and the worst case scenario is that it does nothing other than give him another crick in his neck.

His gaze lingers on the splatter of blood and phlegm staining the flagstones. Vlast may have time to spare, but Teren's fate seems less certain.

"You need a healer," he says. "Soon."

[doneisdone]

"Don't fuss," Teren growls, doing her best to maneuver the tip of the horn toward the keyhole.
It's too large, naturally-- even if they snapped off the end of it, she needs a significantly thinner, pointier object to have any hope of picking the lock. With a sigh back against the wall, Teren releases Vlast's horn and closes her eyes with a wince.

"They took all my hairpins," she grumbles indignantly.