Post:Re: The Sword of Rutilor - 03/21/2024 - 12:12

Re: The Sword of Rutilor · on 03/21/2024 12:12	2426
Days. Weeks. Months. It was impossible to keep track of time here. Between visits to the forge, the prisoner remained in his cell, isolated from any outside contact other than the delivery of gruel in a bowl through a small slot at the base of the steel door that also served as the only source of light within the stone room. He knew they were holding him until Moliko, for a symbolic reckoning. For their singular focus on purging all that might harbor Necromancers, the Hounds called their actions just, and now they had turned on one of their own – his sin was not his overreaches, but that his overreaches led to a public condemnation of the Hounds’ methods. The prisoner accepted this. He also accepted that he was to die in a very public way to serve both as a scapegoat to keep public faith in the Hounds, and a sacrifice to Rutilor himself to appease the very wrath that he had suffered. From outside the cell, he heard the gruff voice of one of his captors. “Prisoner, your food.” He watched as the silhouette of a pair of boots approached the gap at the bottom of his door. With a loud clank, an iron bowl clattered against the floor, and one of the boots kicked it inside. The prisoner shifted to his knees, crawling, and reached for the bowl, clearly one used to feed the hounds in the kennels. He stayed kneeling, allowing his feet to serve as a cushion for him to sit. Dipping his fingers inside the slop of the bowl, he sniffed at it. While the gruel was a flavorless and lumpy meal, it had the distinctive smell of woundwort poultice – just enough to keep him alive from the daily trips to the forge that left his skin blistered and burned. Though it brought him no enjoyment, he ate the slop from the bowl with his bare hands as the boots remained outside of the door. Upon completion, he slid the dog bowl back through the gap, and licked his fingers clean. “Prisoner, what is your name?” He began to respond as he had every day prior to this, even knowing the consequences. “Chep –” He did not flinch as golden sigils on the manacles that bound his hands flared to life, interrupting him and sending the lightning of searing pain up his arms and into the base of his skull. “To Justice, you have no name.” The prisoner collapsed to the stone of the floor, and the sigils on the manacles dulled, deactivating whatever magic had caused them to come to life.
This message was originally posted in Events and Happenings in DragonRealms' Elanthia / Zoluren Events, by DR-IRENOS on the play.net forums.