Post by emeraldsnowx on Jul 15, 2017 14:29:29 GMT -5
A man sits in a gray-bricked cell, in near total darkness; save for the flickering of a sconce on the wall around the corner, outside his cell. His name is Ned "Nine-Knuckles" Newflower. He was in for a long haul this time... too slow getting out of the guard's latest raid on one of Davis' smuggling drop-points. So here he was... staring out of his cell at the other side of the hall. Staring at all the people passing by, here to visit the man in the cell across from his; Holance. Whatever thoughts he had on the situation, he kept them to himself. He got switched out from his other cell; swapped places with another prisoner... another holy man named Chell. As the Inquisitor oversaw the exchange, she slammed his bars home herself, and leaned in, uttering soft words that held all the subtle venom of a Cormyrean cobra... "I want you to look across this hall, Newflower... look carefully, and often. I want you to tell me again... how I wouldn't dare treat you this way in front of decent folk."
With that, the Inquisitor turned abruptly and gave an arc of her hand to one of the attending guards, signaling him into motion. The guard set his pike against the stone wall and headed up the stairs, into the Great Hall proper. The Inquisitor stepped away from Ned's cell and gave a peek into Holance's, leaning to see past several of the man's friends and brothers-in-faith. After a moment, she gives a soft nod of satisfaction and heads to the other end of the hallway. Ned settles in and does as instructed... he watches those people across the way, a mix of apprehension and hope on his face.
Within moments, the Inquisitor returns to Ned's cell and looks through, addressing him from just beyond arm's reach... "Is this the hammer you used, 'Nine-Knuckles?' ... people don't pay up, you take a knuckle from them... with this hammer?"
The Inquisitor holds aloft a smithing hammer, wedged on one end, blunt on the other. Scurrying to gather the right words, Ned replies "Aye... look... I mean, at leas' I don' kill 'em, aye? Ain' that countin' fer somethin?"
The Inquisitor lowers the hammer and just gives him a slight grin, eyeing him down her nose... she turns on ball & heel, stepping to the other end of the hall.
Sometime later, the guard returns, stepping down the stairs with another guard, both men sharing the task of carrying a side of raw beef down into the prison. The guards make a left turn, avoiding line-of-sight with Ned's cell. They wrestle with the heavy and awkward burden; the scuffle of shuffling boots and the strained grunts of the men's efforts resonating through the halls. Ned certainly -heard- something... or someone, being dragged into a cell and giving the guards what-for. The guards hung the side of beef up in the middle of a vacant cell. While one guard went off to get cleaned up, the other remained.
The Inquisitor gave but a brief glance as they returned with the side of beef; she was sitting at the break table, occupied with looking through a report from the bust that yielded Ned and a couple others. From the looks of things, their fence happened to be on location when it all went down. This is a lucky catch for the city... a lucky catch indeed. The problem is, he wasn't caught... he was killed. Crady Inkwell was his name. Inkwell was likely a pseudonym, but it's all the name he'd ever spoken to anyone. The Inquisitor sets the report down on the break table and rests her chin on her thumb, cupping her lips with bent fingers... the picture of consuming thoughts. She got up and headed to the cell with the side of beef in it, scooping up the hammer as she went. She made it a point to arc her path enough to allow Ned to see her carrying his hammer. She paused at that moment and turned to Ned, hefting the hammer appraisingly... "Remember Inkwell? He didn't get away." The Inquisitor turns and heads to the cell, out of Ned's sight.
Ned pressed his face against the bars and strained his eyeballs to the right trying to see, but he could only make out vague shadows on the wall down that hallway. He heard it though... gods be merciful, he heard it. He knew that sound all too well; the sound of -his- hammer, breaking something... the sounds of bone breaking under muscle. He heard the agonizing screams and grunts of a man in mortal and brief agony! For the love of sanity! This has to be a bad dream... maybe too much bad food?
Down the hall, in that darkened cell, the Inquisitor steadied her hand and took another swing, plunging the edge-end of Ned's hammer into the side of beef, glancing to the guard in the room as he bellowed out in acted agony, having just rubbed lemon juice into one of his eyes to aid in the act's credibility. A few swings into the ordeal, the guard fell silent under order of the Inquisitor, who took a few more swings, accented only by the dull thud of unmoving flesh and bone. Satisfied with the overall performance, the Inquisitor leaves the cell, hammer in hand, and trudges down the hall slowly, heading to Ned's cell.
The Inquisitor was a mess: bloodied in a few spots, especially the arm that held the hammer. Her hair was slightly a mess after a few hearty swings, and her eyes held naught but focused malice honed with absolute conviction. She stopped, heavy of breath, in front of Ned's cell. Her breathing was calming steadily as she turned, squaring herself with his cell-door. She stepped forward and gripped the bars with her free hand, hefting the bloody hammer in the other. In front of Ned, in front of Holance, his visitors... in front of all the decent folk she had told Ned to watch, the Inquisitor pierced a gaze of bloody intent through Ned's soul. A single word escaped her lips oh so gently... oh so softly...
"... talk."
With that, the Inquisitor turned abruptly and gave an arc of her hand to one of the attending guards, signaling him into motion. The guard set his pike against the stone wall and headed up the stairs, into the Great Hall proper. The Inquisitor stepped away from Ned's cell and gave a peek into Holance's, leaning to see past several of the man's friends and brothers-in-faith. After a moment, she gives a soft nod of satisfaction and heads to the other end of the hallway. Ned settles in and does as instructed... he watches those people across the way, a mix of apprehension and hope on his face.
Within moments, the Inquisitor returns to Ned's cell and looks through, addressing him from just beyond arm's reach... "Is this the hammer you used, 'Nine-Knuckles?' ... people don't pay up, you take a knuckle from them... with this hammer?"
The Inquisitor holds aloft a smithing hammer, wedged on one end, blunt on the other. Scurrying to gather the right words, Ned replies "Aye... look... I mean, at leas' I don' kill 'em, aye? Ain' that countin' fer somethin?"
The Inquisitor lowers the hammer and just gives him a slight grin, eyeing him down her nose... she turns on ball & heel, stepping to the other end of the hall.
Sometime later, the guard returns, stepping down the stairs with another guard, both men sharing the task of carrying a side of raw beef down into the prison. The guards make a left turn, avoiding line-of-sight with Ned's cell. They wrestle with the heavy and awkward burden; the scuffle of shuffling boots and the strained grunts of the men's efforts resonating through the halls. Ned certainly -heard- something... or someone, being dragged into a cell and giving the guards what-for. The guards hung the side of beef up in the middle of a vacant cell. While one guard went off to get cleaned up, the other remained.
The Inquisitor gave but a brief glance as they returned with the side of beef; she was sitting at the break table, occupied with looking through a report from the bust that yielded Ned and a couple others. From the looks of things, their fence happened to be on location when it all went down. This is a lucky catch for the city... a lucky catch indeed. The problem is, he wasn't caught... he was killed. Crady Inkwell was his name. Inkwell was likely a pseudonym, but it's all the name he'd ever spoken to anyone. The Inquisitor sets the report down on the break table and rests her chin on her thumb, cupping her lips with bent fingers... the picture of consuming thoughts. She got up and headed to the cell with the side of beef in it, scooping up the hammer as she went. She made it a point to arc her path enough to allow Ned to see her carrying his hammer. She paused at that moment and turned to Ned, hefting the hammer appraisingly... "Remember Inkwell? He didn't get away." The Inquisitor turns and heads to the cell, out of Ned's sight.
Ned pressed his face against the bars and strained his eyeballs to the right trying to see, but he could only make out vague shadows on the wall down that hallway. He heard it though... gods be merciful, he heard it. He knew that sound all too well; the sound of -his- hammer, breaking something... the sounds of bone breaking under muscle. He heard the agonizing screams and grunts of a man in mortal and brief agony! For the love of sanity! This has to be a bad dream... maybe too much bad food?
Down the hall, in that darkened cell, the Inquisitor steadied her hand and took another swing, plunging the edge-end of Ned's hammer into the side of beef, glancing to the guard in the room as he bellowed out in acted agony, having just rubbed lemon juice into one of his eyes to aid in the act's credibility. A few swings into the ordeal, the guard fell silent under order of the Inquisitor, who took a few more swings, accented only by the dull thud of unmoving flesh and bone. Satisfied with the overall performance, the Inquisitor leaves the cell, hammer in hand, and trudges down the hall slowly, heading to Ned's cell.
The Inquisitor was a mess: bloodied in a few spots, especially the arm that held the hammer. Her hair was slightly a mess after a few hearty swings, and her eyes held naught but focused malice honed with absolute conviction. She stopped, heavy of breath, in front of Ned's cell. Her breathing was calming steadily as she turned, squaring herself with his cell-door. She stepped forward and gripped the bars with her free hand, hefting the bloody hammer in the other. In front of Ned, in front of Holance, his visitors... in front of all the decent folk she had told Ned to watch, the Inquisitor pierced a gaze of bloody intent through Ned's soul. A single word escaped her lips oh so gently... oh so softly...
"... talk."