getting super AU from here on out, if I continue —————————————
When Caleb wakes he is lying down on a padded cot. It is not comfortable, but he is… whole?
And there is no one on top of him. In him. That is relieving.
He is, of course, still in pain. Caleb almost doesn't remember what it’s like not to be in some measure of pain. His upper body is propped up, somewhat, allowing him to look down at the rest of him in the dim light: his shoulders are both tightly bandaged, but he sees no open wounds on his front. He has small clothes on, and a blanket as well. There is an ointment on his fingers, and the skin there looks raw and red… but there is skin there, where there was none before. Recalling what happened to him yesterday (today? How long has he been asleep?), however, brings about both nausea and the fear that they have healed him only to start over again.
Two Drow are conversing quietly in the corner. He doesn’t recognize either of them, but they are unarmored.
“Is—” Caleb coughs as his voice fails him for a moment. “Is this the c-carrot, then?”
Both drow turn sharply, as though surprised to find him awake. The one on the right — long hair, long face, purple and gray clothes, and quiet footsteps — moves quickly, bringing him water in a small cup that they lift to Caleb’s lips. He has enough sense to take it and not enough pride to be a shit about it. He swallows the water though it feels like broken glass. Dehydration will do that to you, he recalls. He lifts his hand and is quickly dissuaded by the drow with the cup.
“Nunuhno, do not move. Your arms and shoulders are still badly damaged. Only so much can be done in this place. Please, lie still.”
Their voice is oddly soothing, light and lilting. Whether they’re a secondary interrogator or a caretaker or what have you, they’re good at this. Caleb sips from the cup a little more before they take it away and place it next to a pitcher. He sees them throw a stern, warning look at the other drow, who simply nods.
“If you could, Grithis, I would be most appreciative,” comes the polished voice of the other drow, a slight man who gestures to the door.
“Do not move your arms and fingers overmuch,” Grithis speaks softly to Caleb. “Your back is better, and the… your other injuries have been tended to, though we shall still be checking for infection regularly. It is the nerve damage which is concerning, though that should heal given adequate time.” They — she? He does not know — turn back to the other man, their voice considerably more stern. “He should be moved to a healing room.”
“You know we cannot do that as of yet.”
“So you say, Shadowhand.”
“I do indeed. For now. Thank you, Hearthweaver.” He says with a slight nod, clearly dismissing them. Shadowhand and Hearthweaver. Interesting. Recalling the minotaur titled Sunbreaker, Caleb wonders if all Kryn ranks or postings are so evocative.
The Hearthweaver, whomever they are, leaves, and the Shadowhand steps closer into the light.
As he approaches, the slight figure resolves into someone around Caleb’s height, which is surprisingly tall for elvenkind. The man’s hair is short and neatly styled, shorn on the sides in a way that reminds him oddly of Beauregard, and his form — unlike with the interrogator or his guards — is completely enshrouded by a heavy cloak.
“What was it you asked, then?” The man’s tone is gentle, inquisitive, though not overly kind.
“I asked,” Caleb swallowed again, still finding speech someone difficult. “Is this the carrot.”
“The… Ah, yes. A Zemni idiom, yes?”
“Fairly c-common across Wildemount, actually,” corrects Caleb, voice still rough. He wonders if that is useful information, if he shouldn’t have said it, and immediately chides himself for the foolish thought.
“I see. This… Well it is not the stick, as it were. I suppose you could say it is the carrot, though I am not sure yet.”
The drow’s hand appears from within his cloak and waves a light gesture.
“I find it h-hard to believe that you are not certain of what you are doing, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Fair enough,” replies the drow, drifting over to a chair a good six feet away from Caleb. The chair is positioned such that Caleb need not turn his head overmuch to see the man. Odd. Usually they attempt to foster a greater sense of intimacy in these encounters, or make the prisoner strain to ask for help. But this man does not look contrite or sympathetic, nor is he sitting close and making prolonged eye contact. And yet he is attempting to make this unobtrusive, comfortable, but without a sense of urgency.
“What is the game, then?”
“I only wish to ask a few questions—”
“If you say the word ‘mission’,” Caleb interrupts, coughing after the first few words, “Or ‘report’ or whatever the fuck else he were asking, you might just as well bring your man back to have me raped or beaten again. I am not whoever you think I am.”
The Shadowhand doesn’t respond for a moment. Nor does he twitch. He is… frustratingly difficult to read. Caleb’s eyes have since adjusted to the dim light of these dungeons, but he still hates the idea that his tormentors are able to detect every nuance of his face while he is still at a visual disadvantage. Though he isn’t sure whether his inability to suss out what this man is thinking is due to the low light, the other man’s training, or his own exhaustion.
Eventually the drow speaks.
“The Taskhand has… been removed from this posting.”
“Taskha… the interrogator?”
“Correct.”
Caleb scoffs. “Ja, and I suppose you mean to tell me that the Kryn Dynasty does not go in for torturing their poor hapless prisoners?”
“Not at all,” comes the reply with a surprising level of calm. “Torture is a standard part of the interrogation procedure. Certain… other behaviors, however, are not permitted. The Taskhand committed acts that would typically have one locked in here as well, but I’m afraid that would not be possible for someone of his stature. Tasithar has been censured and moved to a different posting. Away from prisoners. I’m sure this is of little comfort to you, of course.”
‘Fucking insulting,’ Caleb thought. ‘Oh, that wasn’t our rapist, we didn’t ask him to do that, we just mean to benefit from it. Aren't you grateful we gave the bastard a nice little desk job across town?’ At least they had the decency to admit that torture was on the menu.
“Was it ‘Tasithar’? I’m afraid I never got th- the man’s name. You know how these casual affairs go, like ships in the night.”
No flinch, no trace of guilt, but no scoff or rolling of eyes either. Tough crowd.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 6/?
Date: 2021-08-04 12:57 am (UTC)—————————————
When Caleb wakes he is lying down on a padded cot. It is not comfortable, but he is… whole?
And there is no one on top of him. In him. That is relieving.
He is, of course, still in pain. Caleb almost doesn't remember what it’s like not to be in some measure of pain. His upper body is propped up, somewhat, allowing him to look down at the rest of him in the dim light: his shoulders are both tightly bandaged, but he sees no open wounds on his front. He has small clothes on, and a blanket as well. There is an ointment on his fingers, and the skin there looks raw and red… but there is skin there, where there was none before. Recalling what happened to him yesterday (today? How long has he been asleep?), however, brings about both nausea and the fear that they have healed him only to start over again.
Two Drow are conversing quietly in the corner. He doesn’t recognize either of them, but they are unarmored.
“Is—” Caleb coughs as his voice fails him for a moment. “Is this the c-carrot, then?”
Both drow turn sharply, as though surprised to find him awake. The one on the right — long hair, long face, purple and gray clothes, and quiet footsteps — moves quickly, bringing him water in a small cup that they lift to Caleb’s lips. He has enough sense to take it and not enough pride to be a shit about it. He swallows the water though it feels like broken glass. Dehydration will do that to you, he recalls. He lifts his hand and is quickly dissuaded by the drow with the cup.
“Nunuhno, do not move. Your arms and shoulders are still badly damaged. Only so much can be done in this place. Please, lie still.”
Their voice is oddly soothing, light and lilting. Whether they’re a secondary interrogator or a caretaker or what have you, they’re good at this. Caleb sips from the cup a little more before they take it away and place it next to a pitcher. He sees them throw a stern, warning look at the other drow, who simply nods.
“If you could, Grithis, I would be most appreciative,” comes the polished voice of the other drow, a slight man who gestures to the door.
“Do not move your arms and fingers overmuch,” Grithis speaks softly to Caleb. “Your back is better, and the… your other injuries have been tended to, though we shall still be checking for infection regularly. It is the nerve damage which is concerning, though that should heal given adequate time.” They — she? He does not know — turn back to the other man, their voice considerably more stern. “He should be moved to a healing room.”
“You know we cannot do that as of yet.”
“So you say, Shadowhand.”
“I do indeed. For now. Thank you, Hearthweaver.” He says with a slight nod, clearly dismissing them. Shadowhand and Hearthweaver. Interesting. Recalling the minotaur titled Sunbreaker, Caleb wonders if all Kryn ranks or postings are so evocative.
The Hearthweaver, whomever they are, leaves, and the Shadowhand steps closer into the light.
As he approaches, the slight figure resolves into someone around Caleb’s height, which is surprisingly tall for elvenkind. The man’s hair is short and neatly styled, shorn on the sides in a way that reminds him oddly of Beauregard, and his form — unlike with the interrogator or his guards — is completely enshrouded by a heavy cloak.
“What was it you asked, then?” The man’s tone is gentle, inquisitive, though not overly kind.
“I asked,” Caleb swallowed again, still finding speech someone difficult. “Is this the carrot.”
“The… Ah, yes. A Zemni idiom, yes?”
“Fairly c-common across Wildemount, actually,” corrects Caleb, voice still rough. He wonders if that is useful information, if he shouldn’t have said it, and immediately chides himself for the foolish thought.
“I see. This… Well it is not the stick, as it were. I suppose you could say it is the carrot, though I am not sure yet.”
The drow’s hand appears from within his cloak and waves a light gesture.
“I find it h-hard to believe that you are not certain of what you are doing, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Fair enough,” replies the drow, drifting over to a chair a good six feet away from Caleb. The chair is positioned such that Caleb need not turn his head overmuch to see the man. Odd. Usually they attempt to foster a greater sense of intimacy in these encounters, or make the prisoner strain to ask for help. But this man does not look contrite or sympathetic, nor is he sitting close and making prolonged eye contact. And yet he is attempting to make this unobtrusive, comfortable, but without a sense of urgency.
“What is the game, then?”
“I only wish to ask a few questions—”
“If you say the word ‘mission’,” Caleb interrupts, coughing after the first few words, “Or ‘report’ or whatever the fuck else he were asking, you might just as well bring your man back to have me raped or beaten again. I am not whoever you think I am.”
The Shadowhand doesn’t respond for a moment. Nor does he twitch. He is… frustratingly difficult to read. Caleb’s eyes have since adjusted to the dim light of these dungeons, but he still hates the idea that his tormentors are able to detect every nuance of his face while he is still at a visual disadvantage. Though he isn’t sure whether his inability to suss out what this man is thinking is due to the low light, the other man’s training, or his own exhaustion.
Eventually the drow speaks.
“The Taskhand has… been removed from this posting.”
“Taskha… the interrogator?”
“Correct.”
Caleb scoffs. “Ja, and I suppose you mean to tell me that the Kryn Dynasty does not go in for torturing their poor hapless prisoners?”
“Not at all,” comes the reply with a surprising level of calm. “Torture is a standard part of the interrogation procedure. Certain… other behaviors, however, are not permitted. The Taskhand committed acts that would typically have one locked in here as well, but I’m afraid that would not be possible for someone of his stature. Tasithar has been censured and moved to a different posting. Away from prisoners. I’m sure this is of little comfort to you, of course.”
‘Fucking insulting,’ Caleb thought. ‘Oh, that wasn’t our rapist, we didn’t ask him to do that, we just mean to benefit from it. Aren't you grateful we gave the bastard a nice little desk job across town?’ At least they had the decency to admit that torture was on the menu.
“Was it ‘Tasithar’? I’m afraid I never got th- the man’s name. You know how these casual affairs go, like ships in the night.”
No flinch, no trace of guilt, but no scoff or rolling of eyes either. Tough crowd.