From the surface, the cave looked like little more than a crack in the ground. In the distance, hills rose into mountains. One of those held a bowl-shaped depression; through a series of tunnels and channels, the cave that the three males occupied connected to that formation. It was why the Cult of the Dragon had chosen this area, so that the blessed--the dracoliches--could lair easily.
This cave, however, was used for an entirely too human pursuit.
Barren land should not ring with the screams of a damned soul, punctuated by drips of water from moisture collected on cave ceiling and walls. Iron striking iron digging into stone and the slap of flesh against stone. Slowly, the scent of cave and mineral and water was overtaken by the copper tang of blood.
"He's done, Theras. Just leave him for now. The Wearer of Purple will be back for him soon enough." The taller man, who in any other profession save 'torturer' would look like simple farmer, brown on brown on brown, remarked to the shorter. That worthy was a squat, broad, bear-type, corded with muscle. Despite that, girls might have swooned over him, black haired and blue eyed as he was. He only grunted, using the bucket the farmer-man had passed him to wash blood from his hands.
The third male could only pant, pressed up against cave wall. Stretched broad like bloody canvas over wood, but the wood was stone. Could not catch his breath--maybe it was the stretching. Maybe his ribs were broken. Delicate bones in hands certainly were, perforated as they were by iron spikes.
And yet, he breathed still.
The humans still muttered amongst each other, possibly betting on whether or not he would survive until the Wearer of Purple came to take him off the wall and drag him gods-knew-where to do things best left unsaid. To try to break him more into shape that was most usable and pleasing. Until the dead dragons ruled once more, according to the prophesies of Sammaster.
Another madman.
Like a vintner plucking the choicest grapes, he mustered strength to do what needed to be done. To always do what needed to be done. Survive. Escape. The humans were too self-absorbed to note the way muscles corded against stone, the way silver fire licked around the edges of iron spike, and the metal melted, dripping past wounds that cauterized themselves before slowly healing themselves. As if months passed in minutes.
Only then did the humans realize, scrabbling for swords and mallets that vaporized under angry silver flames, spewing from the madman they'd pinned to the wall. Hair burnt, flesh singed and crackled and blackened and things that had once been men squealed as if they had turned to pigs before they died. They had no time to flee from this fire belching thing akin to the dragons they worshipped.
Perhaps the dragons would be merciful, in the afterlife.
In this one, Random was not.
This cave, however, was used for an entirely too human pursuit.
Barren land should not ring with the screams of a damned soul, punctuated by drips of water from moisture collected on cave ceiling and walls. Iron striking iron digging into stone and the slap of flesh against stone. Slowly, the scent of cave and mineral and water was overtaken by the copper tang of blood.
"He's done, Theras. Just leave him for now. The Wearer of Purple will be back for him soon enough." The taller man, who in any other profession save 'torturer' would look like simple farmer, brown on brown on brown, remarked to the shorter. That worthy was a squat, broad, bear-type, corded with muscle. Despite that, girls might have swooned over him, black haired and blue eyed as he was. He only grunted, using the bucket the farmer-man had passed him to wash blood from his hands.
The third male could only pant, pressed up against cave wall. Stretched broad like bloody canvas over wood, but the wood was stone. Could not catch his breath--maybe it was the stretching. Maybe his ribs were broken. Delicate bones in hands certainly were, perforated as they were by iron spikes.
And yet, he breathed still.
The humans still muttered amongst each other, possibly betting on whether or not he would survive until the Wearer of Purple came to take him off the wall and drag him gods-knew-where to do things best left unsaid. To try to break him more into shape that was most usable and pleasing. Until the dead dragons ruled once more, according to the prophesies of Sammaster.
Another madman.
Like a vintner plucking the choicest grapes, he mustered strength to do what needed to be done. To always do what needed to be done. Survive. Escape. The humans were too self-absorbed to note the way muscles corded against stone, the way silver fire licked around the edges of iron spike, and the metal melted, dripping past wounds that cauterized themselves before slowly healing themselves. As if months passed in minutes.
Only then did the humans realize, scrabbling for swords and mallets that vaporized under angry silver flames, spewing from the madman they'd pinned to the wall. Hair burnt, flesh singed and crackled and blackened and things that had once been men squealed as if they had turned to pigs before they died. They had no time to flee from this fire belching thing akin to the dragons they worshipped.
Perhaps the dragons would be merciful, in the afterlife.
In this one, Random was not.