Post by Emerald Snow on Mar 1, 2011 7:19:58 GMT -5
~A shadow . . . ~
. . . I sit quietly in the dimly lit stone corridor . . . doing nothing.
Reflecting? Introspection? Possibly.
The wooden chair creeks in protest as I shift, realizing my leg had almost gone numb . . . I stare into the flames of a single candle upon an old weathered wooden table, surrounded by moist stonework and mortar . . . and the smell. You get used to it after while. The scent of old dried blood, human waste, old sweat, vomit, disease, and fear. Yes, mostly the smell of fear.
I remember the first time I came down here. I was shocked. Not for my own standards, which are fitting to this place much the same as a Troll to a swamp. No . . . I was shocked that even one other human being on Toril thought such horrendous things. Justified.
The law must be obeyed. Those who break the law must be found. Ferreted out and driven like rats into the flames of their just ends. Those who aid these rats must also be found . . . so before giving the rats peace, we make them squeak. And squeak they do.
As I sit there in the barely visible stone corridor, I immerse myself in the aura of the place, accented by the occasional shuffling of a prisoner in one of the cells . . . or was that a rat? Is there a difference? Not to me. They all deserve what is happening to them. My mind races in an instant to one man in particular . . . he evades me still! For a year now I have studied the criminal mind . . . gotten inside of it . . . crawled around in its sepulcher to witness the things it comprehends as agreeable. I let my mind drift away from that 'case.'
Drift . . . so peaceful down here, among the fear and hopelessness of those who have wronged others so horribly that they found themselves here . . . in my company . . . my beautiful, beautiful rats . . . how you have fallen.
The name you fear . . . 'Inquisitor.'
We know what you have done . . .
We see where you have been . . .
We will find you.
. . . I sit quietly in the dimly lit stone corridor . . . doing nothing.
Reflecting? Introspection? Possibly.
The wooden chair creeks in protest as I shift, realizing my leg had almost gone numb . . . I stare into the flames of a single candle upon an old weathered wooden table, surrounded by moist stonework and mortar . . . and the smell. You get used to it after while. The scent of old dried blood, human waste, old sweat, vomit, disease, and fear. Yes, mostly the smell of fear.
I remember the first time I came down here. I was shocked. Not for my own standards, which are fitting to this place much the same as a Troll to a swamp. No . . . I was shocked that even one other human being on Toril thought such horrendous things. Justified.
The law must be obeyed. Those who break the law must be found. Ferreted out and driven like rats into the flames of their just ends. Those who aid these rats must also be found . . . so before giving the rats peace, we make them squeak. And squeak they do.
As I sit there in the barely visible stone corridor, I immerse myself in the aura of the place, accented by the occasional shuffling of a prisoner in one of the cells . . . or was that a rat? Is there a difference? Not to me. They all deserve what is happening to them. My mind races in an instant to one man in particular . . . he evades me still! For a year now I have studied the criminal mind . . . gotten inside of it . . . crawled around in its sepulcher to witness the things it comprehends as agreeable. I let my mind drift away from that 'case.'
Drift . . . so peaceful down here, among the fear and hopelessness of those who have wronged others so horribly that they found themselves here . . . in my company . . . my beautiful, beautiful rats . . . how you have fallen.
The name you fear . . . 'Inquisitor.'
We know what you have done . . .
We see where you have been . . .
We will find you.