Post:Re: The Sword of Rutilor - 04/01/2024 - 13:27

Re: The Sword of Rutilor · on 04/01/2024 13:27	2428
The prisoner estimated he had not eaten in a week, but he had no way to be certain in the dark cell. A painful nausea gnawed at his gut, reminding him of his own hunger. He had lost track of night and day – the Hounds no longer checked in with him daily, and the shred of light in the gap beneath the door remained steady. He knew the sacrifice would come, but the wait was becoming excruciating. He had only slept what he estimated a handful of hours in his wait, still being alert, but he had begun seeing spots and lines in the corners of his vision from lack of rest. His arms trembled within the shackles. What he had first accepted as a noble sacrifice to cleanse the Hounds was becoming much less appealing with each day that passed. For the first time in days, the prisoner saw a shadow through the gap. He found himself hoping it was food, but it became quickly clear that it was not – a large rat squeezed through the gap, sniffing at what must have been castoff morsels of gruel within the cracks of the dark stone. Watching it intently, the prisoner saw that it turned, sniffing the air in his direction, before quickly forcing its way back through the gap through which it had entered. Lowering himself to his knees, he assessed the weight of the manacles on his fists. Despite the pain, he could feel them loose on his body. He pulled his wrist away from the manacle, finding enough purchase to tug. This caused the manacle to cinch tighter and activate, sending waves of pain radiating upward from his wrist. Grimacing, he stopped his effort. Later, the guard returned. The prisoner prepared to retreat to the rear of his cell and answer the ritual question of his name, but the question did not happen. With a bang, the tin dish that brought his gruel fell to the ground and kicked through, and the figure stepped away from the door. Falling to his knees, he was grateful at the opportunity to eat, but what he found was not the gruel -- only ground woundwort, mixed with nothing that would supply his body sustenance. He dutifully ate it, knowing that he was to be subject to the next preparation for the sacrifice. “Prisoner, to the back of your cell.” He did as commanded, and as soon as he complied, the door opened. Six Hounds entered the cell, grabbing him by the arms and throwing a bag over his head. Satisfied, they dragged him through the stone corridor. From the repeated path, he knew they were taking him to the forge even before he met the blistering heat. He steeled himself against the searing pain of the blades, his eyes closed beneath the bag, but found that it did not come. Instead, they placed both of his manacled hands atop the anvil, his fingers splayed against the cold iron. In moments, his hand erupted in sudden agony, as a forging hammer smashed each of his fingers in turn, and then his hands with repeated blows. He could feel the faint itching from the woundwort take hold – just in time to find himself grabbed by the arms and dragged. Now his bleeding, torn hands dangled helplessly inside a metal basin. He realized why, and screamed in agony. Molten metal cascaded down his manacles and into his wrists, encasing his mangled hands and fingers in a single mass of steel. Even as the herbs took to heal his digits, the steel held them firmly in their mangled positions, leaving his broken hands in agony and useless with misaligned bones and digits that healed in place. He passed out from the searing pain.
This message was originally posted in Events and Happenings in DragonRealms' Elanthia / Zoluren Events, by DR-IRENOS on the play.net forums.