[Sometimes you need a montage. A torture montage! Such fun!]
Caleb is bent over a basin and his head held underwater until he begins to drown.
“Thank you,” he coughs upon his revival. “I was getting a bit smelly, you know.” He thinks of Jester and how he used to dislike her teasing. How she and he clashed so horribly at the start in Zadash. How much he misses her now. He hopes she is safe. He wishes he could tell her that hears her voice every time he says ‘you know.’
——————
Caleb is detached from the frame and hung by his thumbs, left dangling until his arms are partly pulled from their sockets. He bites his tongue until it bleeds.
“Typically I would start with the ankles and hips. Let them lose all hope of running, ja? Just a thought.” He thinks of teaching Nott magic and watching her tinker with combinations of arcane enhancements and mechanical weaponry. She hasn’t gotten it yet, but she’ll figure something out. She’s smart. She’s so smart. And she’ll get her family back. A real family.
——————
They take Caleb’s advice and crush his ankles in a metal press, hobbling him.
“Ach… I… There we go, you are learning now, yes? You are a passable student, do not worry, I will help make a good torturer of you yet.” He thinks of Fjord teaching them to sail, so very much in his element and yet still so unsure of himself. He’ll figure it out eventually. Caleb is certain of that.
——————
They use a scourge now rather than a singletail whip. It might have metal bits in it, but his back must be a bloody mess now because one pain is hard to distinguish from another.
“Och, back to the millstone, as we say. Hey, what is farming like in Xhorhas? I admit I am woefully ignorant about the— ungh!” He groans at the strike. “…About agriculture in these parts.” He thinks of Caduceus eating some of the pink lichen that still grows on his shield. Of wise, sagacious Caduceus who claims to see something good in him. Who will talk to plants that don’t talk back, and who will name a terrifying warbeast after his little sister.
——————
He can still feel it when they pry up and tear out his fingernails, despite being unable to move his arms. He whimpers each time and tears stream down his face, but he still speaks.
“Well th-that’s not going to be terribly attractive, but I… I suppose I can make it w-work should I ever have occasion to flirt again. Play up the… is called, uh, the sad puppy look, ja?” He thinks of Beauregard, cracked knuckles and wrapped hands, flirting across Exandria. Thinks of a hand on a shoulder and how it has come to mean ‘you are safe.’ Please, he thinks, don’t come after me, schwester.
——————
They break out the knives. He’s uncomfortably familiar with this part, and does not need to see to know exactly what it looks like as they flay strips of skin from his fingers. He wonders how much nerve damage is being done. If it will make spellcasting difficult. Not that he will ever get that chance again.
He mutters an old hymn to the Dawnfather in Celestial and thinks of Yasha. Thinks of her soft voice and her giant wings, terrifying and beautiful, dark bones free of flesh or skin. He remembers being shaved with a greatsword and calling each other friends. He thinks that, whatever she might have done, someone else must have had a hand in it: no one truly irredeemable could be that gentle. He hopes she will forgive herself someday.
——————
They place fire under the frame he is strapped to until he feels the metal burning along his arms, his back, his ass, his neck, his legs, his balls, the back of his head. They stick him with hot pokers, give him a potion, and do it again.
“Schiße!” he concludes after the fire dies down and he can breathe again. His voice is hoarse from screaming. “You… you really… oof, you really got me on that one, I’ll admit it, that… that was… that was pretty good.”
He thinks of Mollymauk, spitting in defiance and dying without a word.
——————
The guards put a bag over his head and drag him to yet another room. They’re half carrying him now — his ankles are destroyed and his brutalized feet drag on the floor, still excruciating despite their lack of movement. They place him on his knees on the floor and push his head down to rest upon a chopping block.
Through the fabric sack, Caleb hears a blade being sharpened and someone dryly reading text by rote. It’s in Undercommon but the cadence of it sounds… formal? Probably a legal or religious text. Ah.
He wonders if this is the real deal, or another game of theirs. Astrid was especially good at that one, the feigned execution. She was always a skilled dissembler, and Eadwulf was particularly menacing with an axe standing by. She’d suggested the use of a false gallows — said it would be more efficient, less effort on their part while affecting more terror. Trent had agreed, but said that for training purposes an axe would be sufficient.
Well, if this is to truly be his end, at least it is a fitting one.
“Already?” Caleb coughs out from behind the bag, his voice strained and rough and tired. Combined with the smarmy tone, he sounds like a belligerent drunk. “No more games? Och, nein, but such fun we were having, freund… Alright, if this is to be the end, I can accept that with some grace. Here we are, goodbye to king and country, auf wiedersehn!”
He hears an extremely heavy sigh and the sound of someone getting elbowed. A sharp order is given in Undercommon. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes as a blade is hefted up and then swings down and he feels the air on his neck.
THUD
He still can’t see when he opens his eyes, but his head still… feels attached to his body? He thinks?
Yeah, definitely still attached — blade went into the block by his head, just as Wulf used to do. More muttering in Undercommon. Sounds angry and frustrated. One of the guards is blaming the other. He’s not sure if the torturer is there or if this was considered simple enough for them to do themselves. Perhaps they’ll get in trouble for not scaring him very much.
“…is it over?” he chirps. “Am I at the Divine Gates? It’s a little dark in here, I can’t tell. Hallo? Ist die Matrone da?”
One of the guards kicks him and he falls over, coughing out huffs of laughter through the pain. He hears more annoyed grumbling, someone kicking something — a metal bucket? He can’t tell before they scoop him up by under his arms and are dragging him back the way he came.
He’s just pleased that he didn’t cry or shit himself or something when the axe fell. Eadwulf and Astrid would never have let him live it down.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 3/?
Date: 2021-06-26 10:54 pm (UTC)Caleb is bent over a basin and his head held underwater until he begins to drown.
“Thank you,” he coughs upon his revival. “I was getting a bit smelly, you know.” He thinks of Jester and how he used to dislike her teasing. How she and he clashed so horribly at the start in Zadash. How much he misses her now. He hopes she is safe. He wishes he could tell her that hears her voice every time he says ‘you know.’
——————
Caleb is detached from the frame and hung by his thumbs, left dangling until his arms are partly pulled from their sockets. He bites his tongue until it bleeds.
“Typically I would start with the ankles and hips. Let them lose all hope of running, ja? Just a thought.” He thinks of teaching Nott magic and watching her tinker with combinations of arcane enhancements and mechanical weaponry. She hasn’t gotten it yet, but she’ll figure something out. She’s smart. She’s so smart. And she’ll get her family back. A real family.
——————
They take Caleb’s advice and crush his ankles in a metal press, hobbling him.
“Ach… I… There we go, you are learning now, yes? You are a passable student, do not worry, I will help make a good torturer of you yet.” He thinks of Fjord teaching them to sail, so very much in his element and yet still so unsure of himself. He’ll figure it out eventually. Caleb is certain of that.
——————
They use a scourge now rather than a singletail whip. It might have metal bits in it, but his back must be a bloody mess now because one pain is hard to distinguish from another.
“Och, back to the millstone, as we say. Hey, what is farming like in Xhorhas? I admit I am woefully ignorant about the— ungh!” He groans at the strike. “…About agriculture in these parts.” He thinks of Caduceus eating some of the pink lichen that still grows on his shield. Of wise, sagacious Caduceus who claims to see something good in him. Who will talk to plants that don’t talk back, and who will name a terrifying warbeast after his little sister.
——————
He can still feel it when they pry up and tear out his fingernails, despite being unable to move his arms. He whimpers each time and tears stream down his face, but he still speaks.
“Well th-that’s not going to be terribly attractive, but I… I suppose I can make it w-work should I ever have occasion to flirt again. Play up the… is called, uh, the sad puppy look, ja?” He thinks of Beauregard, cracked knuckles and wrapped hands, flirting across Exandria. Thinks of a hand on a shoulder and how it has come to mean ‘you are safe.’ Please, he thinks, don’t come after me, schwester.
——————
They break out the knives. He’s uncomfortably familiar with this part, and does not need to see to know exactly what it looks like as they flay strips of skin from his fingers. He wonders how much nerve damage is being done. If it will make spellcasting difficult. Not that he will ever get that chance again.
He mutters an old hymn to the Dawnfather in Celestial and thinks of Yasha. Thinks of her soft voice and her giant wings, terrifying and beautiful, dark bones free of flesh or skin. He remembers being shaved with a greatsword and calling each other friends. He thinks that, whatever she might have done, someone else must have had a hand in it: no one truly irredeemable could be that gentle. He hopes she will forgive herself someday.
——————
They place fire under the frame he is strapped to until he feels the metal burning along his arms, his back, his ass, his neck, his legs, his balls, the back of his head. They stick him with hot pokers, give him a potion, and do it again.
“Schiße!” he concludes after the fire dies down and he can breathe again. His voice is hoarse from screaming. “You… you really… oof, you really got me on that one, I’ll admit it, that… that was… that was pretty good.”
He thinks of Mollymauk, spitting in defiance and dying without a word.
——————
The guards put a bag over his head and drag him to yet another room. They’re half carrying him now — his ankles are destroyed and his brutalized feet drag on the floor, still excruciating despite their lack of movement. They place him on his knees on the floor and push his head down to rest upon a chopping block.
Through the fabric sack, Caleb hears a blade being sharpened and someone dryly reading text by rote. It’s in Undercommon but the cadence of it sounds… formal? Probably a legal or religious text. Ah.
He wonders if this is the real deal, or another game of theirs. Astrid was especially good at that one, the feigned execution. She was always a skilled dissembler, and Eadwulf was particularly menacing with an axe standing by. She’d suggested the use of a false gallows — said it would be more efficient, less effort on their part while affecting more terror. Trent had agreed, but said that for training purposes an axe would be sufficient.
Well, if this is to truly be his end, at least it is a fitting one.
“Already?” Caleb coughs out from behind the bag, his voice strained and rough and tired. Combined with the smarmy tone, he sounds like a belligerent drunk. “No more games? Och, nein, but such fun we were having, freund… Alright, if this is to be the end, I can accept that with some grace. Here we are, goodbye to king and country, auf wiedersehn!”
He hears an extremely heavy sigh and the sound of someone getting elbowed. A sharp order is given in Undercommon. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes as a blade is hefted up and then swings down and he feels the air on his neck.
THUD
He still can’t see when he opens his eyes, but his head still… feels attached to his body? He thinks?
Yeah, definitely still attached — blade went into the block by his head, just as Wulf used to do. More muttering in Undercommon. Sounds angry and frustrated. One of the guards is blaming the other. He’s not sure if the torturer is there or if this was considered simple enough for them to do themselves. Perhaps they’ll get in trouble for not scaring him very much.
“…is it over?” he chirps. “Am I at the Divine Gates? It’s a little dark in here, I can’t tell. Hallo? Ist die Matrone da?”
One of the guards kicks him and he falls over, coughing out huffs of laughter through the pain. He hears more annoyed grumbling, someone kicking something — a metal bucket? He can’t tell before they scoop him up by under his arms and are dragging him back the way he came.
He’s just pleased that he didn’t cry or shit himself or something when the axe fell. Eadwulf and Astrid would never have let him live it down.