It has been days in darkness for the Seer, as she's been left on her own in the dungeon under the DCH offices located in Rhy?Din?s Marketplace. Occasionally someone slips into her tiny cell and administers a hypodermic full of drugs meant to keep her sleeping and/or confused. However, the Seer is not as she seems and over the past few days she's found the drugs are no longer working. Kept as she has been in the cool, dusty dark, she is now breaking back into reality.
Somewhere in the distance, footsteps can be heard, muffled at first but growing ever louder. A muted exchange of voices but there is something familiar to them, something that rings unpleasant. The distance between her and them is ever closing. Off to her left she hears the creak of key to heavy lock and then the whisper of an odd retractable door; a door with no apparent handles, no obvious way of opening, save a box of lighted buttons to one side.
Now the steps are quite clear and loud, in the same room with her. The dark begins to leak a dim light as the face of Howe swims into view. His sickeningly pleased smile would inspire fear even in those who didn't know him. Gleefully he rubs thick-fingered hands together as beady eyes fall on Viki.
?Yes, such a tasty treat, indeed, I can barely wait to get started. Ohh, what will we find out about you, rodent? Never much liked you, peeling right through me like that! Hmph! But now it?s my turn for revenge.?
First, the Jackal's brew, and then that of the Snake's, but perhaps the former was a better alchemist. Even so, she had shaken the side effects, though the withdrawal was something fierce. Starved, and burning with an unnatural fever, she grew accustomed to the dark, making shapes in the grime with her fingers, with her toes - strange scripted curlicues, that, when placed appropriately, might have resembled language. But their order was undone, though she seemed not to notice. Weak, but nonetheless writing, is how they would have found her. What was left of patchwork stuck to the curls of her hair. Her last captor had clothed her, but she clung to the remnants of that old life, one with the Lover. How long had it been? Off-blue bled through the dark, and kept its confidence. They would not betray what she had seen in her sleep.
From behind Howe steps two unknown males, they move alongside Viki reaching down to seize her by the arms and haul her up. A third unknown man wheels in a crisp, uncomfortable-looking, sterile stainless-steel autopsy table. There are troughs on either side, intended to keep the process as clean as possible. Mister Dewey has never been a fan of messy!
Yet another figure glides in towards her, intent of tearing what clothing that had been left to her away. Leaving her completely exposed, her two captors carry her to the waiting table. It has already been locked into place and now the restraints are being prepared. None of the unknown faces offer her any comfort, rather they are vacant and empty. Perhaps they are under some spell, but then again, perhaps they simply don't care?
The waif did not struggle when they lifted her, indeed, she did not seem to know she was being lifted! Her fingers were still for the strange writing on the floor, and tacked their message in the air for frenzy's sake. With one look out, one tremble of a small pink mouth, she attempted to forsake the message to gather her faculties, but no! The alien fabric was torn from her before she could find a means to make a sound. Parched, her lips lay open, and drained. Half-drugged, and perhaps still drunk on some slip of a dream, the seer's look of awe overshadows all thoughts of horror, all sense to question, to battle, to rage. There was only the fairy fever, a slight thing against the sickness that stole much of her strength. But, there was a glimmer along her skin, riding up her naked arms and down the dip between her breasts.
Dewey finally makes his way into the murk-laden Dungeon. Sure, it had space, sound proofing quality, lots of lovely brick and stonework in which to hammer the pikes that held chains and other such implements of pain and torment, but it was dank, muggy, and held a faintly nauseous scent that set the Right Lord's back teeth straight on edge.
The usual Italian suit was covered with a pristine white lab coat; starched, of course; latex gloves being snapped on even as he makes Mr. Howe's side.
?I wonder what the little mouse can tell us before her squeals die away in the strangles of gasping terror??
?Hmm, Interesting!? Howe remarks, beady eyes tracking the odd shimmer of light suffusing her skin. ?What do you think it means?? He is asking of no one in particular. ?Yes, yes, we must see if we can't harness that energy; like we've done with that Ancient Dog.? He's speaking about Glan of course, but would Viki pick that up in her current state? Would she even remember any of this later? ?Bring in the machine!? He calls over his shoulder.
Another person appears, covered in a white lab coat, pushing a huge, cumbersome machine. The strange contraption has many cables projecting from it much like a mutant squid with too many tentacles, each with an odd crab like appendage at the end. The ends are meant to be clamped in to the flesh of their victims. Even in the dim light bits of raw flesh can still be seen in the craggy teeth of steel claws. The machine is brought in close to the table just as she feels the snap of restraints closing about her wrists.
?I miss the old days, chap, when we used to bleed things,? Dewey reminisces.
But her eyes are on the ceiling now, shifting through sediment and limestone, the tar and mortar underbelly of what poses as an office. The seer knew their ruse, knew it long before the others had suspected it. Physically, she was there, devoid of clothes and forced between two strangers, held like a hanger made to bend in their grip. But there were other planes, some happy Elsewheres, some places of terrible truth; and in her madness, in her solitude, she had seen much, but would say nothing.
Somewhere in the distance, footsteps can be heard, muffled at first but growing ever louder. A muted exchange of voices but there is something familiar to them, something that rings unpleasant. The distance between her and them is ever closing. Off to her left she hears the creak of key to heavy lock and then the whisper of an odd retractable door; a door with no apparent handles, no obvious way of opening, save a box of lighted buttons to one side.
Now the steps are quite clear and loud, in the same room with her. The dark begins to leak a dim light as the face of Howe swims into view. His sickeningly pleased smile would inspire fear even in those who didn't know him. Gleefully he rubs thick-fingered hands together as beady eyes fall on Viki.
?Yes, such a tasty treat, indeed, I can barely wait to get started. Ohh, what will we find out about you, rodent? Never much liked you, peeling right through me like that! Hmph! But now it?s my turn for revenge.?
First, the Jackal's brew, and then that of the Snake's, but perhaps the former was a better alchemist. Even so, she had shaken the side effects, though the withdrawal was something fierce. Starved, and burning with an unnatural fever, she grew accustomed to the dark, making shapes in the grime with her fingers, with her toes - strange scripted curlicues, that, when placed appropriately, might have resembled language. But their order was undone, though she seemed not to notice. Weak, but nonetheless writing, is how they would have found her. What was left of patchwork stuck to the curls of her hair. Her last captor had clothed her, but she clung to the remnants of that old life, one with the Lover. How long had it been? Off-blue bled through the dark, and kept its confidence. They would not betray what she had seen in her sleep.
From behind Howe steps two unknown males, they move alongside Viki reaching down to seize her by the arms and haul her up. A third unknown man wheels in a crisp, uncomfortable-looking, sterile stainless-steel autopsy table. There are troughs on either side, intended to keep the process as clean as possible. Mister Dewey has never been a fan of messy!
Yet another figure glides in towards her, intent of tearing what clothing that had been left to her away. Leaving her completely exposed, her two captors carry her to the waiting table. It has already been locked into place and now the restraints are being prepared. None of the unknown faces offer her any comfort, rather they are vacant and empty. Perhaps they are under some spell, but then again, perhaps they simply don't care?
The waif did not struggle when they lifted her, indeed, she did not seem to know she was being lifted! Her fingers were still for the strange writing on the floor, and tacked their message in the air for frenzy's sake. With one look out, one tremble of a small pink mouth, she attempted to forsake the message to gather her faculties, but no! The alien fabric was torn from her before she could find a means to make a sound. Parched, her lips lay open, and drained. Half-drugged, and perhaps still drunk on some slip of a dream, the seer's look of awe overshadows all thoughts of horror, all sense to question, to battle, to rage. There was only the fairy fever, a slight thing against the sickness that stole much of her strength. But, there was a glimmer along her skin, riding up her naked arms and down the dip between her breasts.
Dewey finally makes his way into the murk-laden Dungeon. Sure, it had space, sound proofing quality, lots of lovely brick and stonework in which to hammer the pikes that held chains and other such implements of pain and torment, but it was dank, muggy, and held a faintly nauseous scent that set the Right Lord's back teeth straight on edge.
The usual Italian suit was covered with a pristine white lab coat; starched, of course; latex gloves being snapped on even as he makes Mr. Howe's side.
?I wonder what the little mouse can tell us before her squeals die away in the strangles of gasping terror??
?Hmm, Interesting!? Howe remarks, beady eyes tracking the odd shimmer of light suffusing her skin. ?What do you think it means?? He is asking of no one in particular. ?Yes, yes, we must see if we can't harness that energy; like we've done with that Ancient Dog.? He's speaking about Glan of course, but would Viki pick that up in her current state? Would she even remember any of this later? ?Bring in the machine!? He calls over his shoulder.
Another person appears, covered in a white lab coat, pushing a huge, cumbersome machine. The strange contraption has many cables projecting from it much like a mutant squid with too many tentacles, each with an odd crab like appendage at the end. The ends are meant to be clamped in to the flesh of their victims. Even in the dim light bits of raw flesh can still be seen in the craggy teeth of steel claws. The machine is brought in close to the table just as she feels the snap of restraints closing about her wrists.
?I miss the old days, chap, when we used to bleed things,? Dewey reminisces.
But her eyes are on the ceiling now, shifting through sediment and limestone, the tar and mortar underbelly of what poses as an office. The seer knew their ruse, knew it long before the others had suspected it. Physically, she was there, devoid of clothes and forced between two strangers, held like a hanger made to bend in their grip. But there were other planes, some happy Elsewheres, some places of terrible truth; and in her madness, in her solitude, she had seen much, but would say nothing.