They leave him alone, naked, in the dark for the first few hours (day? No. A few hours. Surely his sense of time can’t be that malleable here, can it?). Pretty standard, let him see the scary scary torture room and then leave him in the dark to imagine it all. His legs are sore as shit, though. Strapped onto what amounts to a tilted table, his weight is still resting largely on his feet, and after days of walking and fighting followed by days of sitting in a cramped cell and being beaten, it’s not a great time to be Caleb Widogast’s legs.
But the guards are fun, when they come back to interrupt his sleep again, though they aren’t very creative in their punishments. The first one is prone to striking him with an open hand and reminding the second guard not to react. The second guard is… not good at not reacting. Caleb spits his water into the second guard’s face the first time they pour some down his throat: not an angry, spiteful gesture, but more a delicate, arcing stream of water from a rich person’s garden fountain in Rexxentrum. Caleb thinks it’s hilarious. He wonders whether rich people have those fountains in Xhorhas too, and starts giggling at the anger in the guard’s face. He gets a few gut punches but nothing worse.
So, so uncreative.
How fucked is it that he finds this entertaining? Comfortable, almost, if ironic that it’s at the hands of the Kryn rather than the Assembly. After months of running from place to place, convinced this will be the day he dies or that Trent catches up to him, this is… weirdly calming. Like an old, familiar environment, with no more hiding.
Ah. Regular old torture.
Just like teacher used to make it.
He giggles again, the noise coming out a little bit hysterical. He hopes the guards don’t think they’ve driven him mad already, it really wasn’t their doing at all, they shouldn’t get credit for that.
He’s left in the dark again. More hours. Not sure how many. Caleb sings quietly to himself to pass the time, popular beer hall songs of his youth and lullabies from his childhood. When his throat starts to hurt he imagines what the Mighty Nein will do with their futures. Imagines Beau and Yasha working their way through the criminal hierarchy of Asarius to find which people were reasonably decent enough and which ones needed to be eliminated. Imagines Nott finding her husband, returning to Felderwin, a family reunited. Imagines Caduceus bringing samples of tea on his journey to find his family, and Jester creating magnificent portraits with dirty secrets hidden in every one. Imagines Fjord on the open seas, freed from Uka’toa’s influence and perhaps coming to reconcile with whatever secrets were torturing him. Like that funny accent of his. Shame Caleb would never learn more about that.
When the door opens again it is not a guard or other imposing figure, but a slighter, more relaxed form. Ah. This would be the torturer, he supposes.
“Good to see you’ve joined us, mein herr,” Caleb greets him, though his tone lacks the energy of his words. “I have been meaning to talk to you about your staff. Terribly unprofessional, but then, good help is so hard to find these days, you know?”
The torturer looks halfway between amused and intrigued. It’s hard to tell in the dim light.
“No witty repartée for you, freund? Very well. Shall we get started then?”
The man walks slowly to the wall, trying to drag out the anxiety over which implement he might choose. Not bad, would be more effective on anyone else. He returns with a thick cane.
“What was your mission in Asarius?” the man asks in thick, heavily accented Common.
“No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” Caleb’s smart mouth replies without a thought. “Hit me first, go on.”
The man raises an eyebrow and swings the cane before Caleb’s brain even catches up to the question. The blunt-sting-pain radiates out from his stomach and he lets it push him. His mission? His mission in Asarius— oh! Right, of course.
“Mission. Right. You think I’m a Scourger, ja?”
No answer.
“It makes sense,” he continues, his voice plainly exhausted but still feigning nonchalance. “Magic Empire kid running around underground Asarius. I’m not, not really, but it makes sense.”
“Your mission?”
“Ah, sorry to say, there is no mission.”
Another strike.
“Oof! Ah, er…” he breathes through his teeth to accommodate the pain. “Try a little to the left this time. You might notice, I have a lump there — old rib never healed right — that should hurt pretty good.”
The man tilts his head this time, not amused but curious. Takes his advice, though. Caleb howls as the cane comes down against that very rib. It takes him a moment to catch his breath.
“Better,” he chokes out. “Better. You have to examine the prisoner’s body, look for weak points unique to them. Don’t worry, you’ll make a fine torturer yet, someday.”
Three blows this time, one on that rib, one on the shoulder, one on the knee. Uneven, which bothers him a little in the way uneven things always do, but he knows it’s an effective method, so he can’t begrudge the man that. It continues on like this for some time. The occasional question, Caleb deflecting and commenting on the interrogator’s competence, a harsher beating. Soon he is flipped over on his front and reattached to the metal frame. The man switches to a heavy whip, cracking it against the wall a few times just to watch Caleb jump. He can admit to being proud that he doesn’t.
“Don’t you think,” Caleb says, tuning out the sound of the whip, “that you are racing ahead of the horse a little bit here? So many other things to work through before you get to the whip. I always liked the whip myself, but there are so many varieties of blunt force before you get to sharp.”
The interrogator grabs his hair and slams his face back into the frame. That one tooth wiggles in his mouth. Caleb groans. Breathes deep and feels a little blood dribble from his mouth as he speaks.
“Better. Hands are more personal.”
The interrogator doesn’t rise to the bait this time, and brings the whip up and down across Caleb’s back.
“I—“ he coughs, momentarily breathless from the sharp pain. “Uninspired, but effective. Not bad.”
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 2/?
But the guards are fun, when they come back to interrupt his sleep again, though they aren’t very creative in their punishments. The first one is prone to striking him with an open hand and reminding the second guard not to react. The second guard is… not good at not reacting. Caleb spits his water into the second guard’s face the first time they pour some down his throat: not an angry, spiteful gesture, but more a delicate, arcing stream of water from a rich person’s garden fountain in Rexxentrum. Caleb thinks it’s hilarious. He wonders whether rich people have those fountains in Xhorhas too, and starts giggling at the anger in the guard’s face. He gets a few gut punches but nothing worse.
So, so uncreative.
How fucked is it that he finds this entertaining? Comfortable, almost, if ironic that it’s at the hands of the Kryn rather than the Assembly. After months of running from place to place, convinced this will be the day he dies or that Trent catches up to him, this is… weirdly calming. Like an old, familiar environment, with no more hiding.
Ah. Regular old torture.
Just like teacher used to make it.
He giggles again, the noise coming out a little bit hysterical. He hopes the guards don’t think they’ve driven him mad already, it really wasn’t their doing at all, they shouldn’t get credit for that.
He’s left in the dark again. More hours. Not sure how many. Caleb sings quietly to himself to pass the time, popular beer hall songs of his youth and lullabies from his childhood. When his throat starts to hurt he imagines what the Mighty Nein will do with their futures. Imagines Beau and Yasha working their way through the criminal hierarchy of Asarius to find which people were reasonably decent enough and which ones needed to be eliminated. Imagines Nott finding her husband, returning to Felderwin, a family reunited. Imagines Caduceus bringing samples of tea on his journey to find his family, and Jester creating magnificent portraits with dirty secrets hidden in every one. Imagines Fjord on the open seas, freed from Uka’toa’s influence and perhaps coming to reconcile with whatever secrets were torturing him. Like that funny accent of his. Shame Caleb would never learn more about that.
When the door opens again it is not a guard or other imposing figure, but a slighter, more relaxed form. Ah. This would be the torturer, he supposes.
“Good to see you’ve joined us, mein herr,” Caleb greets him, though his tone lacks the energy of his words. “I have been meaning to talk to you about your staff. Terribly unprofessional, but then, good help is so hard to find these days, you know?”
The torturer looks halfway between amused and intrigued. It’s hard to tell in the dim light.
“No witty repartée for you, freund? Very well. Shall we get started then?”
The man walks slowly to the wall, trying to drag out the anxiety over which implement he might choose. Not bad, would be more effective on anyone else. He returns with a thick cane.
“What was your mission in Asarius?” the man asks in thick, heavily accented Common.
“No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” Caleb’s smart mouth replies without a thought. “Hit me first, go on.”
The man raises an eyebrow and swings the cane before Caleb’s brain even catches up to the question. The blunt-sting-pain radiates out from his stomach and he lets it push him. His mission? His mission in Asarius— oh! Right, of course.
“Mission. Right. You think I’m a Scourger, ja?”
No answer.
“It makes sense,” he continues, his voice plainly exhausted but still feigning nonchalance. “Magic Empire kid running around underground Asarius. I’m not, not really, but it makes sense.”
“Your mission?”
“Ah, sorry to say, there is no mission.”
Another strike.
“Oof! Ah, er…” he breathes through his teeth to accommodate the pain. “Try a little to the left this time. You might notice, I have a lump there — old rib never healed right — that should hurt pretty good.”
The man tilts his head this time, not amused but curious. Takes his advice, though. Caleb howls as the cane comes down against that very rib. It takes him a moment to catch his breath.
“Better,” he chokes out. “Better. You have to examine the prisoner’s body, look for weak points unique to them. Don’t worry, you’ll make a fine torturer yet, someday.”
Three blows this time, one on that rib, one on the shoulder, one on the knee. Uneven, which bothers him a little in the way uneven things always do, but he knows it’s an effective method, so he can’t begrudge the man that. It continues on like this for some time. The occasional question, Caleb deflecting and commenting on the interrogator’s competence, a harsher beating. Soon he is flipped over on his front and reattached to the metal frame. The man switches to a heavy whip, cracking it against the wall a few times just to watch Caleb jump. He can admit to being proud that he doesn’t.
“Don’t you think,” Caleb says, tuning out the sound of the whip, “that you are racing ahead of the horse a little bit here? So many other things to work through before you get to the whip. I always liked the whip myself, but there are so many varieties of blunt force before you get to sharp.”
The interrogator grabs his hair and slams his face back into the frame. That one tooth wiggles in his mouth. Caleb groans. Breathes deep and feels a little blood dribble from his mouth as he speaks.
“Better. Hands are more personal.”
The interrogator doesn’t rise to the bait this time, and brings the whip up and down across Caleb’s back.
“I—“ he coughs, momentarily breathless from the sharp pain. “Uninspired, but effective. Not bad.”