The interrogator and one of the guards (he thinks it is the one who is easier to goad, but it’s getting hard to keep track, it’s so dark in here and he’s so tired) wake Caleb. Whether it’s later that night or the next day, he is unsure. All he knows is suddenly he’s falling out of the frame, landing face first on a cold stone floor.
He feels the familiar chill of a spell wash over him and his will fails him. He feels the Zone of Truth take hold. Careful, Caleb. Careful what you say.
“Who was your target in Asarius?”
Caleb coughs. For a moment he tries to push his upper body off of the floor, but he doesn’t have the strength left to do so. At least they’re not dragging him around from under his dislocated shoulders again. He might pass out if they do that again.
“I am beginning to suspect, mein freund,” he responds, his cheek still pressed against the cool stone, “That you have not actually established the goals and parameters of our sessions with your superiors, no? If- if you are trying to intimidate, I mean, you know, points for effort, but I think a proper torture session is meant have some objectives, technically.”
Caleb laughs to himself. It’s funny. It is. Even funnier that it is true. And that he sounds like Jester when he’s being funny. Did he used to do that? Why does no one ever appreciate his jokes?
“If you are trying to get in-“ he clears his throat a few times. His voice is positively ragged. “If you are t-trying to get information, you have been doing a piss poor job of it, meine herren. S-so many opportunities to manipulate and gain trust and all of them s-squandered! There is supposed to be a nice one of you. Carrot and s-stick, ja?”
He hears clinking from where the guard is standing and wonders what they’re intending to try next. He can see the interrogator’s feet walking around to the area behind the frame. Whether he is looking for a good implement of torture or just circling out of habit, Caleb is unsure. So he continues talking.
“And if this is for your own enjoyment—”
A wide stripe of sharp heat comes down on his lower back. A belt? Really? After all this? That must have been the clinking. The guard’s own belt. What a fucking honor.
Caleb groans, coughs, gets air back in his lungs. “If it is, though, eh, well I am… I am in no position to judge, ja? But there are much more ent-entertaining methods I could t-teach you. Did… Did you know… if you hang a man over hot coals to where his feet are j-just barely touching it, he will… he will dance every time he s-s-starts to fall asleep?”
A momentary silence. He wonders if they’re surprised at that one. He knows he was when he learned it. It is a terrifying dance. He learned to laugh at it. Learned to find it funny. Part of him still does. Hopefully he’ll be dead soon, one less torturer in the world.
“What was your mission?”
“Oh, you know. Transportation,” he answers. A harmless truth. “We bought some moorbounders. They’re really cute, you see, and—”
Another swing with the belt. He can’t tell if he’s just sensitive on his right side or if that was a buckle, but nine fucking hells that one hurt.
“Zhlaass, Vadin,” says the interrogator. Caleb wishes he spoke Undercommon. He’s also glad he doesn’t. Less to think about. Just relax. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Caleb’s voice is small when he japes “I named mine Jannik.”
“And who were you to report to?” The interrogator is keeping their voice even. They’re good at that, at least.
“Re… report? Oh, ah, well there were those fiends we killed in the well. I guess we should report that to someone. A incubus, a succubus, and… a pit fiend I believe? I don’t know. I… I think I remember we were supposed to report it to someone for a bounty, but…” Caleb starts to laugh a little desperately. A few tears escape. “It’s funny, you know, I forgot who! It’s funny. I never forget who, but… Lady… something. It was only… only a little while ago, but I… I forgot… Hah… hahah…”
Forgetting is so scary. It’s so terrifying. He wishes it wasn’t true. He laughs harder.
The guard kicks him in the side. Perhaps if his arms still functioned he would roll over and curl up. As it is, he can only whimper, cough, groan, and twitch.
“Where is the Beacon?”
Caleb goes suddenly very cold. His breath hitches, but he’s still in the midst of coughing and he prays to the Dawnfather, the Lawbringer, and every other deity that it covers his fresh terror at the memory of the shining dodecahedron in Jester’s bright pink haversack.
He coughs another moment before responding,
“…Bacon?”
Another kick.
“Where did they move the Beacon,” the interrogator reiterates, frustration slipping through in his voice. “And do not lie to me, wretch, we know it has not returned to the Zauber Spire. Where. Is. It.”
Caleb, still lying on the floor, cannot think of anything clever to say amid both his pain and relief that they don’t know, they don’t know, the Nein are still safe, they don’t know. He wants to say ‘Up your ass,’ but feels the words catch in this throat because, hilariously enough, that would be a lie. Zone of truth is such a joke ruiner.
“Is it still in Zadash?”
“I don’t think we’re in Zadash, freund…”
Another stripe with the belt. It takes a solid minute for Caleb to stop wheezing and gasping for air. Gods, he can’t… he has to… no, he can do this… his friends are safe. That’s what matters. They’re safe.
“Is it in the Candles?”
“W-why would I put bacon in a candle…?”
Another. This one hits an open wound on his ass and for a minute he starts crying like a frightened child. By the end of it he is laughing again. So tired. Perhaps they will kill him soon.
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
“What does the Assembly want in Eiselcross?”
“Why was it in Felderwin?”
“What use was the halfling to you?”
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
“Is it in Deastock?”
“The laboratory in Druvenlode?”
“How many people are guarding Ludinus Da’leth?”
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
Caleb answers each with a mediocre jest, or a pained groan, or silence. It carries on for hours. Eventually one of them lifts a bottle to his lips. The smallest sip of a health potion — he must have been closer to death than he realized for them to do that. Sloppy.
More clinking. …Is …is the guard putting his belt back on already?
No. There’s the sound of leather armor being removed.
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 4/?
He feels the familiar chill of a spell wash over him and his will fails him. He feels the Zone of Truth take hold. Careful, Caleb. Careful what you say.
“Who was your target in Asarius?”
Caleb coughs. For a moment he tries to push his upper body off of the floor, but he doesn’t have the strength left to do so. At least they’re not dragging him around from under his dislocated shoulders again. He might pass out if they do that again.
“I am beginning to suspect, mein freund,” he responds, his cheek still pressed against the cool stone, “That you have not actually established the goals and parameters of our sessions with your superiors, no? If- if you are trying to intimidate, I mean, you know, points for effort, but I think a proper torture session is meant have some objectives, technically.”
Caleb laughs to himself. It’s funny. It is. Even funnier that it is true. And that he sounds like Jester when he’s being funny. Did he used to do that? Why does no one ever appreciate his jokes?
“If you are trying to get in-“ he clears his throat a few times. His voice is positively ragged. “If you are t-trying to get information, you have been doing a piss poor job of it, meine herren. S-so many opportunities to manipulate and gain trust and all of them s-squandered! There is supposed to be a nice one of you. Carrot and s-stick, ja?”
He hears clinking from where the guard is standing and wonders what they’re intending to try next. He can see the interrogator’s feet walking around to the area behind the frame. Whether he is looking for a good implement of torture or just circling out of habit, Caleb is unsure. So he continues talking.
“And if this is for your own enjoyment—”
A wide stripe of sharp heat comes down on his lower back. A belt? Really? After all this? That must have been the clinking. The guard’s own belt. What a fucking honor.
Caleb groans, coughs, gets air back in his lungs. “If it is, though, eh, well I am… I am in no position to judge, ja? But there are much more ent-entertaining methods I could t-teach you. Did… Did you know… if you hang a man over hot coals to where his feet are j-just barely touching it, he will… he will dance every time he s-s-starts to fall asleep?”
A momentary silence. He wonders if they’re surprised at that one. He knows he was when he learned it. It is a terrifying dance. He learned to laugh at it. Learned to find it funny. Part of him still does. Hopefully he’ll be dead soon, one less torturer in the world.
“What was your mission?”
“Oh, you know. Transportation,” he answers. A harmless truth. “We bought some moorbounders. They’re really cute, you see, and—”
Another swing with the belt. He can’t tell if he’s just sensitive on his right side or if that was a buckle, but nine fucking hells that one hurt.
“Zhlaass, Vadin,” says the interrogator. Caleb wishes he spoke Undercommon. He’s also glad he doesn’t. Less to think about. Just relax. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Caleb’s voice is small when he japes “I named mine Jannik.”
“And who were you to report to?” The interrogator is keeping their voice even. They’re good at that, at least.
“Re… report? Oh, ah, well there were those fiends we killed in the well. I guess we should report that to someone. A incubus, a succubus, and… a pit fiend I believe? I don’t know. I… I think I remember we were supposed to report it to someone for a bounty, but…” Caleb starts to laugh a little desperately. A few tears escape. “It’s funny, you know, I forgot who! It’s funny. I never forget who, but… Lady… something. It was only… only a little while ago, but I… I forgot… Hah… hahah…”
Forgetting is so scary. It’s so terrifying. He wishes it wasn’t true. He laughs harder.
The guard kicks him in the side. Perhaps if his arms still functioned he would roll over and curl up. As it is, he can only whimper, cough, groan, and twitch.
“Where is the Beacon?”
Caleb goes suddenly very cold. His breath hitches, but he’s still in the midst of coughing and he prays to the Dawnfather, the Lawbringer, and every other deity that it covers his fresh terror at the memory of the shining dodecahedron in Jester’s bright pink haversack.
He coughs another moment before responding,
“…Bacon?”
Another kick.
“Where did they move the Beacon,” the interrogator reiterates, frustration slipping through in his voice. “And do not lie to me, wretch, we know it has not returned to the Zauber Spire. Where. Is. It.”
Caleb, still lying on the floor, cannot think of anything clever to say amid both his pain and relief that they don’t know, they don’t know, the Nein are still safe, they don’t know. He wants to say ‘Up your ass,’ but feels the words catch in this throat because, hilariously enough, that would be a lie. Zone of truth is such a joke ruiner.
“Is it still in Zadash?”
“I don’t think we’re in Zadash, freund…”
Another stripe with the belt. It takes a solid minute for Caleb to stop wheezing and gasping for air. Gods, he can’t… he has to… no, he can do this… his friends are safe. That’s what matters. They’re safe.
“Is it in the Candles?”
“W-why would I put bacon in a candle…?”
Another. This one hits an open wound on his ass and for a minute he starts crying like a frightened child. By the end of it he is laughing again. So tired. Perhaps they will kill him soon.
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
“What does the Assembly want in Eiselcross?”
“Why was it in Felderwin?”
“What use was the halfling to you?”
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
“Is it in Deastock?”
“The laboratory in Druvenlode?”
“How many people are guarding Ludinus Da’leth?”
“Is it in Rexxentrum?”
Caleb answers each with a mediocre jest, or a pained groan, or silence. It carries on for hours. Eventually one of them lifts a bottle to his lips. The smallest sip of a health potion — he must have been closer to death than he realized for them to do that. Sloppy.
More clinking. …Is …is the guard putting his belt back on already?
No. There’s the sound of leather armor being removed.