(X-posted from Sevier Bane's Of Pelf and Prey)

Answers - Part One

The sting in his wrist woke him; a shooting pain that ignited at the joint and raced up the arm to the elbow. It was that tingling sensation of a limb that had fallen asleep, compounded by the biting pain of a broken bone.

Leoline drew in a deep breath and even that was painful. His chest burned with agony as it expanded to admit the heavy inhale, the familiar misery of ribs that were cracked and splintered beneath flesh returning to a body accustom to battle and war. He forced the breath back out, and while relief came in minuscule doses, it was relief none the less.

It was too dark to see, though he didn't need his eyes to tell him everything. His wrists were bound and suspended above his head, hung so that his naked toes could just barely scrape the floor. Time had passed, of that he was certain, for when he brushed his chin back and forth across his shoulders he could feel the furry growth of a beard upon his face. He was accustom to a mid-day's scruff, but this was something different. This was something that would have taken time to grow.

He could smell a musky growth, like damp vegetation, lingering upon the air and while instinctively it should have been putrid, Leoline couldn't help but welcome the scent. It was calming. Too calming, he thought. A sedative to keep him from challenging the binds and trying to escape. He strained with all the strength he could muster, biceps and shoulders swelling taut as they tore at the cuffs that bound his wrist. With no foothold he could only use his upper-body, and that wouldn't be enough. After several moments of struggling against the shackles he fell limp again, wheezing as he panted through the pain of his broken ribs.

The sudden opening of a door across the way filled the room with a silver light so bright that he impulsively turned away. He fought and blinked through the brilliant illumination to see what caused the light or what came through the door, but it was far too potent for his eyes to manage, and forced him to stare abroad in order to keep them open.

"Very good." A man spoke. "You're awake."

Again Leoline futilely blinked against the harsh luminosity, though was unable to see who possessed the voice; he was forced to keep his eyes turned away or closed, effectively blinded with either choice.

There was a solid and heavy sound then, and Leoline knew that the door had been closed. Slowly he parted his eyes and let the light pour in, the mild radiance now far less effective than the previous light. The room was much larger than he had expected it to be, octagonal in shape with walls that were jagged like the bark of an oak tree and a ceiling so high that it disappeared into darkness. His wrists were tied together and stretched upward by what appeared to be a vine of some sort, its far end disappearing into the ascended shadow much like the top of the room. Again he strained against the thin vine, certain that he should be able to break through the slender binding.

"It's a vine from the Hangman tree." Came the voice again in perfect time with Leoline's slumping surrender of pain. "While it might not appear as thick as chain I can promise you, Leoline de Montesquieu, it is much stronger."

Dangling weakly, exhausted from the effort put forth to break free of the vine, Leoline focused to lift his eyes upward despite his heads refusal to rise, wanting to see who spoke to him.

The man stood just a few feet away, calmly position beside a waist high table that carried a large brass basin. Man may have been too quick to assume, Leoline thought as he studied his strange gaze and found something there that exceeded the definition of mundane. His features were 'pretty' by most standards, with high cheek bones, thick black hair, and aquamarine eyes. He wore a stark white tunic with leather breeches along with wide boots that rose to mid-thigh. "...Where...?" Leoline struggled to find his voice, and just that single word felt like razor-blades along his throat.

"Our location is a trivial detail that has little to do with the reason that you are here. You seem burdened with the effort needed to speak. Would you like some water?"

He did. In fact, at that moment there was nothing in the world that sounded more enjoyable than some nice, cold water. His throat burned as though he had swallowed acid, and the relief of a drink stirred anxiety within him. It was this desperation that inspired him to lift his chin, and with every ounce of strength he had left, he shook his head in refusal.

The man who stood across from him canted his head with inquiry. "While it may have been in the form of a question, I can assure you that it was not an option. I need you to be able to speak, Lord de Montesquieu. You will drink."

Leoline noted a blur of motion an instant before the slight weight was felt upon his shoulder. He careened his head as much as he could, using the periphery of his gaze to spy what caused the blur, and was shocked to find the form of a small man standing there. Braced upon the inclined bulb of his shoulder, with one small hand holding onto his forearm, the small fey looked down at him with almond-shaped golden eyes mounted upon an angular and preternatural visage, complete with silken white hair and sharply pointed ears. He wore extravagant clothing that was an assortment of colors, complied of a Doublet, hose, wide brimmed hat (complete with feather) and ankle boots.

"Helooksreallyhurt,boss.Yousurejustoneglass'lldo 'm?" The creature asked in a sharp voice.

"I'm certain, Brackenbli. And if not, we'll get him another."

"Goodplan."

The speed in which the create spoke made keeping up with their conversation a burden, and the focus required to do so made it easy for the creature to thrust his small hand forward and punch between Leoline's unsuspecting lips the vial that contained the icy liquid.

Leoline tried to fight, but the cooling sensation of the water splashing across his tongue triggered the betrayal of his body, and while he wanted to gather it in his mouth and spit it back at his captive, all his parched throat would consent to was a heavy swallow. He dropped his head and dangled until the pain that shot through his arm was unbearable. He realized then that it had to be broken along with his ribs. Thanks to the water, the rough texture to his throat dissolve almost instantly, and while he hated to admit it, he was refreshed and soothed by the drink. "Who are you?"

"A man." He answered. "Much like you."

"Doubtful."

"I would not dismiss the notion so quickly if I were you. We are both hunters, are we not? We are both on a mission to retrieve something for the nations that we serve, are we not?"

Leoline narrowed his eyes, forcing his focus to spear through the physical pain and concentrate on the man -- the being -- before him. "I am on no mission. I hunt nothing. Me and my wife moved to Rhy'din to start a family." Leoline didn't fear speaking of his wife to this man. He already knew his name, and if he were able to get that information, finding out who his family was would not have been much harder.

The creature that rode Leoline's shoulder was suddenly gone in another blur, racing down to the floor and away. Between blinks he returned to stand next to the man, holding in his small hands a long case.

"That's a shame." The man said as he reached down and opened the offering presented by the small, quick creature. From it he drew a short whip; the hilt stained oak wrapped in textured leather with a lash no longer than two feet.

Leoline gritted his teeth and clenched his hands, straining against the binding as he watched the man turn and take a step toward him. "Keep that thing away from me unless you want to be strangled by it."

"It's another vine, actually." The man's oceanic gaze shifted from Leoline to the weapon. "The brambles are razor sharp and can shred flesh easily, but that's not the beauty of it. The barbs secrete a mineral that ignites when mixed with blood. It sears the wound closed again to trap the boiling inchor inside. Essentially, it scalds you from the inside."

"Doesn't sound fun." Leoline snarled, though couldn't help but watch the lash.

The man answered by lunging forward and swinging the whip in a diagonal line down Leoline's chest.

Pain and fire exploded across his flesh, tearing from Leoline's lips a roar of pain as he felt the flame instantly cauterize the wound and trap the anguish within. The weltering skin began to bubble and boil immediately, wracking his suspended frame with the severe suffering.

The man waited until Leoline's screams died away, and as the warrior faded between consciousness and slumber, he said sharply. "I would not recommend lying to me again."

Leoline...save me...save Aribet...

Leoline gasped as the memories struck him in the heart, wracking him with pain. He strained against the thorn-covered binding; piercing his flesh, igniting rivulets of blood to rush down his arms. Time had become irrelevant, its passing untraceable and utterly lost. All that he knew was that he had been a captive to the bastard Sidhe for far too long.

She has possessed me. Do not let her take your sister.

It was his father's voice speaking to him, directly to him. There was no one else, only him. Not even Lachlan had been required to make the sacrifice that fell upon the de Montesquieu heir.

Free me of this hell.

Recollection obscured realism, splitting his vision between sights of the desolate chamber that was his prison and the vivid review of times long ago. He knew it was a byproduct of the leeches; the small and fast little fairy told him that the residual effect of the Leeches' poison would be hallucinations - mixing now with then and blending the two.

Save my Aribet. Save my Aoline.

"Save...my Tiatari..." He murmured through weak lips.

He forced his eyes opened, using the entirety of his strength to pry them half-lit, and found the form of his father knelt before him, a shell of his former glory. "Fa...father?"

You must not let her...

"Let...let her...?"

How dare you!

The image sprung from his knees and unleashed a fearsome backhand that struck Leoline hard in the face. He recoiled, held upright only by the painful vines that cuffed his wrists, and blood poured from his nose and mouth.

"How?" Leoline asked through the ichors. "You're...not real."

Do I not feel real, you arrogant bastard!

"My father would never-" he hacked through the midst of his statement. "-never strike me."

Your father's son would never act as though a whore. You are the son of a king, not a butcher!

"What do you speak of?" The blur that infected his vision after the strike was starting to fade, drawing straight and clear lines, bringing his father back into view.

Save my Tiatari! Last I was aware, your beloved's name was Meleigh de Montesquieu! Not Tiatari!

"Father." Leoline found a sudden sense of clarity, though was unsure if it was from the dissolving haze that fell over him or the sharp venom of his father's words.

You are a daft fool far too eager to sample of a woman's caress. You took an oath to your bride and have betrayed your word and the word of de Montesquieu. You are as befoul a creature as my beauteous dove!

"Do not say...say such things." Leoline protested weakly. "I am ...not wed...from love."

Again his father came forward and delivered a devastating blow as he roared...

Who is!?

Leoline slumped and hung from the binds weakly, that cloud of vague distortion falling over him once again.

We do not ally ourselves with foreign nations because we are friends! We do so for strength and resolve! Support and endorsement! The same is said for marriage! These are not fables and lore, Leoline! Your happiness is not at stake, but the survival of our entire kingdom! Your wife stands beside you as a means to assist in your rule, not because she cradles your heart with warmth!

Blood flowed from his broken lips as he hung on the verge of unconsciousness, gathering whatever was left inside to retaliate against the verbal and physical onslaught of his sire. He needed every moment of it, of that he was certain. Acting quickly was beyond his grasp. "Be gone, demon. Your venom shall not sway me."

Leoline, you are-

"Be gone!" The sharp crescendo of his roar was met with absolute silence, confirming to him that he stood alone in the newly lightless room. He stared into the darkness and heard no sound save for the periodic drip from some faraway place. He slumped down, dangling from the vines, the excruciating numbness that filled his arms now so customary that he barely noticed.

"Meleigh." He whispered as he drifted toward oblivion. "Tiatari."

The bond between he and Meleigh de Montesquieu was growing stronger, and that brought a smile to the Dark Hunters angular face.

As the Sidhe liaison in charge of overseeing her negotiations with the Fae fabric weavers, Sevier spent a majority of his time with the Lady Meleigh, making sure that the offers presented by the Faeries were mutually profitable and not deceitfully one-sided. He could tell from the start that the group they were in talks with were honest and noble, but Meleigh didn't know this, and through his own treachery he portrayed them as worthy tricksters; too dishonest to trust, too valuable to lose.

She believed him. Completely.

Their relationship was flirtatious and engaging, evolving from facetious remarks and amorous comments to soothing touches and lewd caresses, and though he could tell by the quiver of her eyes that she felt she was betraying some sense of ethical conduct, she did not deny him.

He had kissed her in the water when they bathed and nearly became her lover in the cabin just hours later, but virtue endured the strangling grip of lust -as well as the enchantment of his glamour - , and in the end she stood firm in her resistance. She apologized for any misunderstanding, and in return he twisted her words to become the victim, blaming his vulgar behavior on the overwhelming desire the sight of her instilled. She was a virtuous soul, and took his claim to heart, laying upon his chest apologetically until they both fell asleep.

And with each passing moment he grew more heated, more enraged, at the Lord who swung in his dungeon.

He entered into that prison where Leoline de Montesquieu was bound by the thriving vines of the assassin tree, not breaking stride, crossing the distance to where he hung. There were no words, only actions, as he drew from his inner pocket the vicious Harrow Rod and thrust it forward to slam against the naked ribs of the man.

Power cracked with electrical potency, filling the room with the smell of burnt flesh and the agony of his scream.

He held the rod firmly flush for a handful of seconds before withdrawing. "You!" Sevier accused. "How is it that you have managed the attention of such fair creatures? First Aolani Malvlasta and now Meleigh? What magic do you weave?"

Leoline hung limply from his binds, the impact of the anguish that filled him causing a recoil that left him swaying back and forth. He spoke not a word, not a single murmur. His only sound was the panting for breath.

Again the harrow rod descended, this time high up on his torso, closer to the chest. "I could ignite your heart while it beats inside you, fool! Tell me what sorcery you wield!"

Again Leoline roared in pain, his body jerking unnaturally in response to the torture unleashed by the devilish weapon. At its conclusion, he again swung with lifeless ambition, nothing more than a carcass barley holding on to life.

Sevier narrowed his aquamarine gaze. "Very well, amad?n. If you wish to know pain then let it become your lover, for the two of you shall be rather intimate until I have my answers."