CONTENT WARNING: The following post contains gore and implied torture. Please read at your own discretion. If something is upsetting that I didn't include in the CW, please PM me so I can add it!
— PHAEDRUS —
"Please," the apprentice spluttered. "
Please."His desperate eyes rolled up, shining orange with torchlight. Tears slicked his cheeks and clung to his stubble in a glistening mass, mingling with the blood that caked his nose. One nostril struggled to flare open—the other was glued shut like a red eye. For a moment, the only sound that split the silence was his deep, rattling breath.
"P-please," the man wheezed, straining against the chains—they bit into his wrists like metal serpents, wrenching him back onto the table.
The shadow merely watched, unmoving. Nothing stirred beneath its cowl; the only movement it made was the slow turn of a hammer in its gloved hand.
"
Please," the man sobbed, mouth opening into a pit of ruined teeth. He slammed his head against the table, hiccuping on his own blood. His terrified eyes shot towards the cloaked figure. "Not another.
Please." It said nothing.
His eyes bulged as it approached, a silent, gliding shadow; the chains rattled at the man's legs as he kicked and bucked like a horse, trying to writhe away.
Slowly, slowly, the bloodied hammer lofted.
"Not another," the man shrieked, drooling red. One hand spasmed like a trapped spider; the other lay limp on the table, fingers smashed into swollen pulp. "I'll tell you anything —
anything, you-- I
swear—— p-p-
please—"
Sobbing, the man squeezed his eyes shut, thin chest jerking in rickety sobs. His heart thundered, pelting itself against his ribs, awaiting the blow, the sickening
cr-cr-crunch of splintering bone and white-hot agony—
But no pain came. Breath catching in his throat, the man froze there for an agonizing heartbeat, waiting in the stillness. With a whimper, he cracked his eyes open—
His captor came into misty focus. Greasy torchlight licked the walls of the abandoned shack, limning the cloak of his tormentor, but it did nothing to light its face; he couldn't pick out a single feature in that darkness, and—with a jolt of his guts—he wondered if the bastard had a face at all.
"Anything?" The horror purred.
"Anything," he gasped, tears prickling his eyes. More bloody drool dribbled out of his mouth. "Anythi— I swear—"
Beneath his hood, Phaedrus smiled— as much as a thing in his current form could smile — a subtle shift of darkness, a void reorienting itself into the suggestion of a face. His fingers twitched eagerly on the hammer. A slow, rattling hiss left his cowl, and his prisoner flinched.
"Tell me where to find your Master." —
Well, Phaedrus thought later, washing himself of blood,
that scarcely took long, didn't it? One broken hand, a few broken teeth, and he squeals like a pig. Octavian Apsethus ought to choose better servants.His now-ex-apprentice had gone to the crows with a red smile on his neck and a final scream on his lips.
A fine thing that he was talentless, he mused as he scrubbed his forearms.
Subduing a mage would have been... much harder. Octavian would not be so simple: wait too long, and he would grow suspicious of his apprentice's absence, robbing him of the element of surprise—he had to move quickly, within the next few days.
There is quite a lot of work ahead for me, the sorcerer thought, mouth set into a grim line. By now the water of the tub swirled red, tainting the suds a foul rose color. Phaedrus lifted a pallid hand, staring as it trickled between his manicured fingers.
Fortunate that the maids of Zantaric don't ask too many questions.—
"Another round of ale, love?"
A wan smile flickered on his face. The sorcerer looked up at the barmaid beaming in his direction, and with a jerk of his chin, he slid the tankard across the rough-hewn table.
"Certainly," Phaedrus agreed, tossing a hand. He kept up the smile until she turned her back, and it stiffened into a rictus before crumbling entirely. He drummed his nails on the table, drawing a deep breath and scanning the tavern with narrowed eyes.
The
Boar's Tusk was as sure a place as any to run into mercenaries and brawn-for-hire; he only hoped that his coin would be enough, and their hearts not too faint for what he planned to do. The sorcerer sat in the corner, dressed in limp taupes and blacks today, his fiery hair drawn back and hidden under a hat— all the better to blend in with the cracked plaster walls and low-hanging, smoke-charred rafters.
Barmaids drifted like ghosts between squat, scarred tables--a few raucous laughs occasionally punctured the mutters of conversation--in the corner huddled three men with furtive eyes, fanning out tarot cards and muttering fortunes--a ruddy-faced giant of a man was throwing back ale--a woman missing an eye grumbled to herself over a shot of firewhisky, her lank grey hair brushing the table.
"'Ere you go," said a voice from his left, and Phaedrus jumped, near-forgetting he'd ordered another round.
"Right," he breathed at the barmaid's surprised face, his hand twitching on the tankard. "Thank you."
Off slid a copper, and then she was gone, vanishing into the sea of patrons. As he lifted his mug, Phaedrus stared into the crowd, willing someone with a sword and hungry for gold to appear. His guts twisted, fingers tapping a frenetic melody into the wood.
Come now, certainly there has to be one bloodthirsty git amongst all these people...