“Think what you will, it was an unapproved method and against policy,” the drow recites as though reading from a legal text. Caleb wonders for a moment if that was how he seemed to the people he interrogated. Perhaps more frightening. Perhaps less. It was hard to tell, without thinking he was either flattering himself or being too hard on himself. “Regardless, we have more pressing matters. We are aware of your status as a Scourger, needless to say. Tell me of them, if you would.”
Caleb laughs, coughs, sighs. He’d only heard the term for the first time in these dungeons while they were bringing him in. Wasn’t hard to figure out what they were talking about. Whom they were talking about.
“I know only pieces.”
“Pieces?”
“Just stories.”
“You would have me believe you were not trained as a Scourger,” the man in the chair responds, more a statement than a question.
“They are a tale parents tell their children. Be good or the shadows will take you to become a monster. Don’t wander or the Waldhexe will get you and eat your heart or your eyes.”
“We have those sorts of tales too, you know,” says the Shadowhand, false warmth in his voice. As though they’re casually chatting round a fire.
“Natürlich. Every culture does.”
“So you are not of the mind that we are all beasts in the Dynasty, then?” A leading question, though there is perhaps a hint of curiosity there.
Caleb nearly laughs, but it comes out a dry, wheezing cough, instead. “Of… of course you are a beast. You are torturers; one does not get this job by being a normal person. The people outside of these dungeons though, living their own lives… no, they are not beasts.”
“I have not tortured you so far, have I.”
“Do not take me for a fool. You are clearly superior in rank to my previous interrogator, and obviously more skilled at the art besides. I was tortured, if not on your orders, then under a regimen you no doubt condone.”
“Fair enough,” the drow nods. His placid expression is getting annoying. Caleb is too tired for this.
“Ask your questions so I can tell you to fuck off already, please. Either let’s get back to the honesty of torture, or let me get some sleep.”
The Shadowhand sighs heavily, the first real reaction Caleb has seen from the man.
“Very well,” he says, removing a wand from his coat and muttering a quiet command word. As Caleb feels the zone of truth take hold, he braces for pain and feels his whole body stiffen as though in fear. But after another moment he calms his breathing and wills his muscles to relax.
“Go on, then,” Caleb offers.
“What is your name?”
“Fuck off.”
The Shadowhand sighs in annoyance. It almost makes Caleb laugh; he did warn the man, after all.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” says the drow, his lips slightly pursed though he maintains a refined and collected demeanor. “I would really rather get this over with. At least answer what you are willing to, I shall not press you on the rest.”
An odd interrogation strategy, Caleb thought. No offers of aid or clemency, no offers to withhold torture, but no threats either. Offering ‘not to press’ could be interpreted in many ways within the zone of truth, so he is not comforted, but he is… curious.
“Alright,” he returns.
“Your name?”
“Caleb.” He’s almost surprised to find he can say it.
“And was that always your name?”
Silence. How did he know that? How did the Kryn… how much did they know?
“Did they give you the name Caleb?”
“I named myself.”
“When?”
“I was arrested for stealing bread a year ago. They needed a name, I gave them one. It… seems to have stuck.”
The drow nods patiently, though Caleb thinks he notices some confusion at the statement. Is he wondering why a suspected scourger would be arrested for stealing bread, or if Caleb has somehow managed to outwit the zone of truth? Or perhaps it is just another layer of deceit for the purposes of this interrogation. Caleb doesn’t flatter himself to believe he can know for certain.
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of the Cerberus Assembly?”
“No.”
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal?”
“Never met the man,” Caleb can’t resist saying, obnoxious though it may be. Both of them know that isn’t an answer, though enough to satisfy the zone of truth. At a reproachful look from the drow, he sighs. “Fine, no, I am not in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal, or any of his officers or subordinates.”
“Thank you. And are you here by orders of any Empire or Concord affiliated organization?”
“…No.” Thank the Dawnfather. Given their meeting with Beauregard’s teacher from the Cobalt Soul, Caleb is relieved he can say it.
“You hesitated. Were you expecting not to be able to say that?”
“I am simply very tired, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Hmm.” The drow pauses. Caleb suspects he isn’t fooled. “Have you ever been affiliated with a member of the Cerberus Assembly?”
Caleb opens his mouth and finds he cannot speak. He stops cold. He does not want them to follow this thread. Sighs. “Unfortunately. I knew one once. Long time ago He was a piece of shit.”
“How did you know him?”
“He… visited my hometown,” Caleb says reluctantly. Trying not to think too hard. Trying not to remember too hard. “Ruined quite a few lives. I'd rather not get into it.”
“Fair enough. Have you been in contact with any member of the Cerberus Assembly or King Dwendal’s administrators in the last decade?”
“No.” As far as he knows, anyway. It only occurs to him after saying so that stabbing a Volstrucker to escape the Sanitarium might count, but it wasn’t a willful mistruth.
“Thank you,” says the Shadowhand, and for a moment Caleb wonders if he’s done. Then he speaks again. “You arrived in Asarius with a group of six mercenaries, yes?”
A chill runs down his spine.
“You know this,” Caleb objects.
“But I should like to hear you confirm it,” the Shadowhand calmly retorts.
“Yes, I arrived with six mercenaries. We travelled to Asarius together.”
“Hmm. And you proceeded to eliminate not one but two abyssal rifts within the city, one beneath a well in the northern square.”
“A service for which I was rewarded with kidnapping and torture. Vielen dank, mein herr.”
“Who told you of these rifts?”
“No one really told… We went to buy some moorbounders.” The man looks surprised at this. “The shopkeep, he said there was something wrong in the basement, and we offered to take a look in exchange for a better price. That’s where we found the first one. A bugbear who was having nightmares led us to the second. Or… rather he was targeted by the creatures from the second.”
“You are speaking much more than I expected.”
“I am tired,” Caleb offers. “And have been tortured for days. Forgive my verbosity, but I have not told you much more than I offered the missgebildete Scheißkerl back there.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes. Hmm.”
Another twitch of the man’s mouth. Hmm.
“You are exceptional at withstanding interrogation for someone who claims not to be trained.”
“Who said I wasn’t trained? There are more people who torture than just King Dwendal’s shadows in the dark.”
“You are also exceptional at dissembling within the constraints of a zone of truth,” speaks the Shadowhand, and Caleb swears he can hear a note of admiration in the drow’s voice.
“I don’t kn… What are you getting at?” He corrects himself midstream. No lies, Caleb.
“You said you only knew pieces about the Scourgers. King Dwendal’s ‘shadows in the dark,’ as you call them.”
“I did. It was the truth.” It was. Caleb is still humbled by how little he knows about his own past associates, by how hopelessly outclassed he is in the face of such institutions of power.
“Not all the truth, I think. Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
Caleb tries to swallow a few times to cover for his mind racing for a new answer. Eventually he asks for water. The Shadowhand brings him some, holding the ladle to his lips as he sips slowly. The man is… disquietingly gentle about it. It worries Caleb. The gentle ones are always the most dangerous, he remembers.
“As I asked,” the drow repeats after seating himself once more. “Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
“I have been beaten by many people in my life. Growing up in poverty teaches these things.”
“Of course.” The Shadowhand is clearly not convinced. He didn’t really answer the question and they both know it. “Yet you are a Scourger nonetheless, no?”
Caleb shakes his head before remembering the spell and speaking aloud: “No.”
“Hmm.” The drow seems surprised by this. “The scars on your arms say otherwise—”
— They do? Do all Volstrucker have those scars? Were those experiments standard practice, then? Had they not been experiments at all, but only framed as such to see how far Trent could push them? Had that been going on for years before Caleb’s arrival, or had he and his friends been the first? Had their assistance with the experiments borne fruit, led to more children having their arms sliced open —
“—though you have no tattoos, but we have time for that later. Tell me, what do you think of the Empire?”
Caleb scoffs, but as he starts to speak finds the words caught in his throat. It’s odd. He didn’t expect that to be a lie. Or perhaps he always knew it was. He breathes deep.
“I… have many mixed feelings about it. Growing up, I… I loved my country. But after the things I’ve seen and… the things…” Caleb stops. “It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
“The people are good. Mostly. They’re people, same as it is everywhere. I love my country for their sake.”
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: “Tough Crowd” [Caleb torture, non-con] 7/?
Date: 2021-08-04 06:16 am (UTC)Caleb laughs, coughs, sighs. He’d only heard the term for the first time in these dungeons while they were bringing him in. Wasn’t hard to figure out what they were talking about. Whom they were talking about.
“I know only pieces.”
“Pieces?”
“Just stories.”
“You would have me believe you were not trained as a Scourger,” the man in the chair responds, more a statement than a question.
“They are a tale parents tell their children. Be good or the shadows will take you to become a monster. Don’t wander or the Waldhexe will get you and eat your heart or your eyes.”
“We have those sorts of tales too, you know,” says the Shadowhand, false warmth in his voice. As though they’re casually chatting round a fire.
“Natürlich. Every culture does.”
“So you are not of the mind that we are all beasts in the Dynasty, then?” A leading question, though there is perhaps a hint of curiosity there.
Caleb nearly laughs, but it comes out a dry, wheezing cough, instead. “Of… of course you are a beast. You are torturers; one does not get this job by being a normal person. The people outside of these dungeons though, living their own lives… no, they are not beasts.”
“I have not tortured you so far, have I.”
“Do not take me for a fool. You are clearly superior in rank to my previous interrogator, and obviously more skilled at the art besides. I was tortured, if not on your orders, then under a regimen you no doubt condone.”
“Fair enough,” the drow nods. His placid expression is getting annoying. Caleb is too tired for this.
“Ask your questions so I can tell you to fuck off already, please. Either let’s get back to the honesty of torture, or let me get some sleep.”
The Shadowhand sighs heavily, the first real reaction Caleb has seen from the man.
“Very well,” he says, removing a wand from his coat and muttering a quiet command word. As Caleb feels the zone of truth take hold, he braces for pain and feels his whole body stiffen as though in fear. But after another moment he calms his breathing and wills his muscles to relax.
“Go on, then,” Caleb offers.
“What is your name?”
“Fuck off.”
The Shadowhand sighs in annoyance. It almost makes Caleb laugh; he did warn the man, after all.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” says the drow, his lips slightly pursed though he maintains a refined and collected demeanor. “I would really rather get this over with. At least answer what you are willing to, I shall not press you on the rest.”
An odd interrogation strategy, Caleb thought. No offers of aid or clemency, no offers to withhold torture, but no threats either. Offering ‘not to press’ could be interpreted in many ways within the zone of truth, so he is not comforted, but he is… curious.
“Alright,” he returns.
“Your name?”
“Caleb.” He’s almost surprised to find he can say it.
“And was that always your name?”
Silence. How did he know that? How did the Kryn… how much did they know?
“Did they give you the name Caleb?”
“I named myself.”
“When?”
“I was arrested for stealing bread a year ago. They needed a name, I gave them one. It… seems to have stuck.”
The drow nods patiently, though Caleb thinks he notices some confusion at the statement. Is he wondering why a suspected scourger would be arrested for stealing bread, or if Caleb has somehow managed to outwit the zone of truth? Or perhaps it is just another layer of deceit for the purposes of this interrogation. Caleb doesn’t flatter himself to believe he can know for certain.
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of the Cerberus Assembly?”
“No.”
“Are you in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal?”
“Never met the man,” Caleb can’t resist saying, obnoxious though it may be. Both of them know that isn’t an answer, though enough to satisfy the zone of truth. At a reproachful look from the drow, he sighs. “Fine, no, I am not in Xhorhas on orders of King Dwendal, or any of his officers or subordinates.”
“Thank you. And are you here by orders of any Empire or Concord affiliated organization?”
“…No.” Thank the Dawnfather. Given their meeting with Beauregard’s teacher from the Cobalt Soul, Caleb is relieved he can say it.
“You hesitated. Were you expecting not to be able to say that?”
“I am simply very tired, Herr Shadowhand.”
“Hmm.” The drow pauses. Caleb suspects he isn’t fooled. “Have you ever been affiliated with a member of the Cerberus Assembly?”
Caleb opens his mouth and finds he cannot speak. He stops cold. He does not want them to follow this thread. Sighs. “Unfortunately. I knew one once. Long time ago He was a piece of shit.”
“How did you know him?”
“He… visited my hometown,” Caleb says reluctantly. Trying not to think too hard. Trying not to remember too hard. “Ruined quite a few lives. I'd rather not get into it.”
“Fair enough. Have you been in contact with any member of the Cerberus Assembly or King Dwendal’s administrators in the last decade?”
“No.” As far as he knows, anyway. It only occurs to him after saying so that stabbing a Volstrucker to escape the Sanitarium might count, but it wasn’t a willful mistruth.
“Thank you,” says the Shadowhand, and for a moment Caleb wonders if he’s done. Then he speaks again. “You arrived in Asarius with a group of six mercenaries, yes?”
A chill runs down his spine.
“You know this,” Caleb objects.
“But I should like to hear you confirm it,” the Shadowhand calmly retorts.
“Yes, I arrived with six mercenaries. We travelled to Asarius together.”
“Hmm. And you proceeded to eliminate not one but two abyssal rifts within the city, one beneath a well in the northern square.”
“A service for which I was rewarded with kidnapping and torture. Vielen dank, mein herr.”
“Who told you of these rifts?”
“No one really told… We went to buy some moorbounders.” The man looks surprised at this. “The shopkeep, he said there was something wrong in the basement, and we offered to take a look in exchange for a better price. That’s where we found the first one. A bugbear who was having nightmares led us to the second. Or… rather he was targeted by the creatures from the second.”
“You are speaking much more than I expected.”
“I am tired,” Caleb offers. “And have been tortured for days. Forgive my verbosity, but I have not told you much more than I offered the missgebildete Scheißkerl back there.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes. Hmm.”
Another twitch of the man’s mouth. Hmm.
“You are exceptional at withstanding interrogation for someone who claims not to be trained.”
“Who said I wasn’t trained? There are more people who torture than just King Dwendal’s shadows in the dark.”
“You are also exceptional at dissembling within the constraints of a zone of truth,” speaks the Shadowhand, and Caleb swears he can hear a note of admiration in the drow’s voice.
“I don’t kn… What are you getting at?” He corrects himself midstream. No lies, Caleb.
“You said you only knew pieces about the Scourgers. King Dwendal’s ‘shadows in the dark,’ as you call them.”
“I did. It was the truth.” It was. Caleb is still humbled by how little he knows about his own past associates, by how hopelessly outclassed he is in the face of such institutions of power.
“Not all the truth, I think. Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
Caleb tries to swallow a few times to cover for his mind racing for a new answer. Eventually he asks for water. The Shadowhand brings him some, holding the ladle to his lips as he sips slowly. The man is… disquietingly gentle about it. It worries Caleb. The gentle ones are always the most dangerous, he remembers.
“As I asked,” the drow repeats after seating himself once more. “Was it the Cerberus Assembly who trained you to withstand torture?”
“I have been beaten by many people in my life. Growing up in poverty teaches these things.”
“Of course.” The Shadowhand is clearly not convinced. He didn’t really answer the question and they both know it. “Yet you are a Scourger nonetheless, no?”
Caleb shakes his head before remembering the spell and speaking aloud: “No.”
“Hmm.” The drow seems surprised by this. “The scars on your arms say otherwise—”
— They do? Do all Volstrucker have those scars? Were those experiments standard practice, then? Had they not been experiments at all, but only framed as such to see how far Trent could push them? Had that been going on for years before Caleb’s arrival, or had he and his friends been the first? Had their assistance with the experiments borne fruit, led to more children having their arms sliced open —
“—though you have no tattoos, but we have time for that later. Tell me, what do you think of the Empire?”
Caleb scoffs, but as he starts to speak finds the words caught in his throat. It’s odd. He didn’t expect that to be a lie. Or perhaps he always knew it was. He breathes deep.
“I… have many mixed feelings about it. Growing up, I… I loved my country. But after the things I’ve seen and… the things…” Caleb stops. “It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
“The people are good. Mostly. They’re people, same as it is everywhere. I love my country for their sake.”
“That’s not what your mercenary friends say.”
“They… what?”