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Burt Macklin, FBI
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Submit.

Post by Burt Macklin, FBI » Fri Oct 27, 2017 7:46 am

The first thing she noticed was the birds. Chirping, singing, and fluttering about on nearly soundless wings. Their beauty matched only by the day itself - a sunny spring afternoon. The trees were just beginning to bloom, and the insects were climbing from their winter homes. The field smelled of lilacs, and the gentle breeze whispered against the leaves and the grass. She basked in the warmth of that midday sun; drank it in like nectar.



A shadow fell over her. Baroth, the lord she served, smiled even as he blotted out the sun. Her fellow squires had gathered around them. It was her knighting ceremony. She was kneeling, ready for the knighting blade to grace her shoulders, but it wouldn't come. Baroth hadn't moved, only smiled that unnerving smile. She tried to speak - tried to ask why the ceremony had stopped, but no sound came from her mouth. She heard something. Water? Air bubbles? She tried to shut it out, but it just got louder. The scenery began to shift and blur. She couldn't focus on Baroth's face - she couldn't breath. She reached out and tried to grab hold onto something, anything, as the world around her began to slip from beneath her, suddenly replaced by a terribly familiar cold and dark room.




Bria gasped for air as she was lifted by her mane from the water trough. She spat and sputtered and coughed. She didn't know how long she was under this time. Lost count when she started hallucinating. Her break time was over, though. Her torturer twisted his grip on her hair, forcing her to look him in the eyes. She knew what he was going to say. She knew what her answer would be. She knew it was still going to give her chills. All he uttered was a single word; one single word that would determine her freedom.



"Submit."



She spat on him. The next thing she felt was the cold and unforgiving weight of water against her lungs. She struggled to come up for air, but she was weak - her captor too strong. Soon she felt nothing; nothing but the sweet release of her fever dreams.



Bria came to sluggishly. Her hearing came first: the pitter patter of water droplets hitting stone. Her boots scuffing the hallway floor. She was being dragged. A lock clicked home, a door swung open. Whatever had been supporting her was suddenly gone. Her torso hit stone and, in a rush, the rest of her senses came back to her. Pain, foremostly. Her lungs ached. She was pretty sure she had a broken rib. That smell was familiar. She was back in her cell. The door shut behind her and the lock clicked. She could hear the boots of her captors trailing into the distance, until there was silence. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Bria laughed. It hurt like hell, but still she laughed. She laughed as she had done after every session. They failed to break her. They always would. She was unbreakable.



And soon, she would break them.
Last edited by Burt Macklin, FBI on Fri Dec 15, 2017 12:18 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Burt Macklin, FBI
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Re: Submit.

Post by Burt Macklin, FBI » Mon Dec 04, 2017 7:05 pm

The squeal of a rusty cell door pierced through the heavy, blanketed veil of sleep. Bria's eyes shot open and she scrambled to her feet - or tried to, anyway. Her limbs, deprived of essential nutrients and regular use, cramped and halted her attempt. She fell back to her cell floor, defenseless.

But no one grabbed her. No fist came to strike her. She blinked the sleep from her eyes and, in fact, saw her cell door was still closed. Bria quieted herself, listening.

A meaty thud, then a grunt came from behind the stone wall on the left of her cell. The creak of hinges well in need of oiling cleaved through the hallway once more, followed by the click of a lock, and finally a pair of boots thumping into the distance.

All was quiet. Bria strained her hearing, but no sounds came from the cell next to hers. Slowly, so as not to further exert her still-spasming legs, she scooted to put her back against the wall.

"...Jason? You alive?" She whispered as soon as she was confident the jailers were gone.

The silence stretched on.

“Ain’t killed me yet,” The man replied, perhaps more feebly than he would have liked.

Bria let her head fall back against the stone in relief. “Shit, Jace.”

She could practically hear him grinning as he said, “Frankly, it kinda tickled.” Jason spat something. Bria didn’t need much of an imagination to guess what. There was a shuffling from his cell, and she could tell he had shifted to mirror her against the same wall. Bria let the silence sit between them. He would talk when he was ready. She let her mind wander as she stared at the cold, grey stone opposite her.

Jason had been her cellmate since she was first thrown in here. Self-purportedly a master thief, he had been incarcerated after stealing jewelry from the wife of some important lord or another. Bria was fairly certain his story became more embellished and convoluted each time he told it.

A pretty shoddy master thief, Bria thought, if he’d been caught.

Jason enjoyed recounting the many tales of his escapades to Bria, and did so with regularity during the infrequent times they could speak openly. Though she only believed a quarter of his stories were true - and even fewer without elaborations - she admittedly enjoyed listening to them. It was a welcome escape from reality, imagining the poor man sprinting just ahead of a pack of rather malcontent guard dogs, his pockets loaded to brimming with stolen meats and sausages. It was comical, even; Bria found herself laughing at his tales, perhaps more often than she should have. Jason always took it in stride. Her laughter, naturally, encouraged him to spin yet more anecdotal stories from his adventures.

For someone she had never seen face-to-face, Bria felt she knew Jason. And, despite being an adept pickpocket, she felt she could trust him. So, in turn, she traded her own stories. She told Jason of her parents. How they hadn’t come to see her - hadn’t even asked about her, as far as she was aware. How they were probably so disappointed in her that, even if they knew she was rotting in a cell, they would likely give a wave of their hands and pretend they didn’t have a daughter.

She told him of her squiredom, and subsequent loss of it. This surprised him.

“Now, hold on a sec,” He had said. “Did they decide y’were unfit t’be a knight before or after y’cut a man’s hand off?”

She’d given a strangled laugh. “Before, actually. Evidently I have, uh… ‘an affinity for animosity and a brazen negligence for the laws and duties of knighthood’. Just fancy for ‘you have anger issues’, I guess. The hand part was just a bonus.”


Bria was pulled from her reminiscing by a voice.

“Hey, Bri?” Jason muttered quietly, just loud enough for her to make out.

“Yeah, Jace?”

He was quiet for a few moments. “Yer not a halfwit. Y’know why they’re torturing me.” It wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t a question either.

Bria tented her knees. She had connected the dots. Softly, she said, “They weren’t torturing you when I first got here. It only started after they knew we talked.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond right away, said, “They’re trying to get to me any way they can. Including through you.”

There was another pause. Jason said, “And y’know what I told ‘em?”

Bria wasn’t sure what to say, so she said nothing.

“Told ‘em to rot in the Abyss, I did.”

Bria let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “Jace…”

Jason interrupted. “I don’t care what y’done, Bri. These troglodytes come in here nigh-daily to tear you apart. They don’t deserve th’ satisfaction of tearing y’head apart, too. If that means takin’ one for th’ team every couple’a days, well sign me right up.”

Bria felt the hot sting of tears threatening to flow. What had she done to deserve a friend, in this filthy dredge pit of humanity? She had no words - no benediction would be a deserving enough thank you. Luckily, Jason continued to fill the void in their conversation.

“There’s, uh… something I ain’t told you. Y’know I love to spin a good tale about my antics, ‘bout all that master thievin’ I do. But, uh… ain’t ever told you why I done it.”

Bria was taken aback to realize he was right. In all her time here, listening to him, she had never even thought to wonder why. She was always so focused on her own misery and suffering, she failed to see someone else’s.

The silence that stretched on between them was fragile. Bria was afraid anything she’d say might shatter it.

“I got a family," Jason said after what felt like an eternity. "Well… half’a one. Got me a daughter; sweetest little thing y’ever saw. My wife… she passed givin’ birth to our lil’ angel.”

“Jace, I’m so s-” Bria began, but he gently interrupted her.

“ ‘s alright. I done my mourning, and all that.”

Bria put her head into her hands, searching for something, anything to say that would be comforting or supportive. Both qualities she lacked in abundance. She settled on a question:

“What’s her name? Your daughter.”

Bria swore she could hear the man smile. “Delilah,” Jason said, his voice lifting noticeably. “She’s a true joy, she is. Bright, like her Ma. Free-spirited.” He left a lull in the conversation, as if considering, but then continued: “I, uh… never been able to hold a job for long. Had to put food on th’table somehow. I ain’t saying what I done was justified, but I’d do it a thousand times over to keep my little girl fed.”

Bria rubbed her grimy face with even grimier hands. “I believe you, Jace. I think I’d have done the same, in your position.” Bria had never had children. Never even had a lover. The closest she’d come to caring for a child was when she had visited her distant cousin, and was left alone in the same room with the brat. After that encounter, she hadn’t wanted kids.

“Y’know…” Jason’s voice sliced through the silence again. “You remind me of her. My wife, I mean.” He chuckled, and the sound echoed down the empty hallways. It was a morose tone. “She had a bit of a temper, too, but her heart was always in th’right place. Would’a done just about anything to right a wrong done to th’people she cared about.”

He let that one sit; let it hover in the air like a puff of smoke. Bria swallowed. She swore to herself right then and there there that she’d do right by Jason. She had no knightly oath to avow to, so her word would have to do for now.

Jason raised his voice again. “Hey, Bri, if we get outta here-”

When,” Bria corrected him, perhaps a bit more sharply than she had intended.

She heard a smothered laugh from the other cell. “When we get outta here,” he amended, “I think I’m gonna scoop Delilah up from her aunty’s and move somewhere new. Start fresh, y’know? Heard Calimshan’s lovely this time’a year. Maybe, uh… if you ain’t got anything tying y’down here, you could join us.”

Bria - despite the circumstances, despite having no escape plan, and despite the very real possibility she would die in here - smiled. A true and genuine smile, something she hadn’t felt in months. “I’d like that,” She murmured so quietly she wasn’t sure if Jason could hear her.

“It’s a date, then,” He replied, his voice taking on its usually jovial tune. Jason jumped right into one of his tangents; some anecdote about a first date of his where he had actually stolen jewelry from his date, and, without knowing it, regifted her the very same jewels.

Bria was only half-listening, in truth. She was focused, not for the first time, on escape. She would be free.

She would be free.
Last edited by Burt Macklin, FBI on Sat Dec 30, 2017 6:00 am, edited 4 times in total.

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Re: Submit.

Post by Burt Macklin, FBI » Thu Dec 07, 2017 7:01 am

Bria woke.

It wasn't the pleasant sort of waking up. Not like being slowly enticed to wakefulness by the wafting scents of bacon frying. Nor like a gentle stream of sunlight filling up your room, telling the tale of a new morning.

No, this morning - if morning it was - woke Bria the same way it had for the last ninety-three days; it started with hunger. It gnawed ceaselessly at the back of her mind day in and day out. The meals she received were only enough to keep her alive, and did little to quiet the incessant voracity she felt. Some days the plate would be half empty, or clearly tampered with - the laughter of the jailers delivering it enough to convince her not to eat it. Some days no food arrived. Those were the longest.

She struck hunger off her mental checklist. Through some coping mechanism or another, Bria had begun making lists in her head, keeping track of any number of things: some miniscule and unimportant, like how she felt each morning. Others more pertinent, like when the jailers changed shifts, or that each of them sounded different when walking through the halls - varying equipment, differing gaits. Important information or not, the lists helped. It was one fewer thing she had no control over.

Next on Bria's morning list was pain. As it had for some time, pain welcomed her with open arms. Her lungs still ached from her most recent session, and the other bruises, scrapes and cuts along her body made themselves known with a rueful vigor.

The next item was to determine if she was actually awake. Bria's fever dreams had come more and more frequently, and always with increasing intensity. It was becoming difficult to separate what was dream from what was reality. Without opening her eyes, Bria attempted to discern what was around her. Firstly, she noticed she was vertical. That wasn't a good sign. And, indeed, upon prying her eyelids open she confirmed she wasn't in her cell. Moving her limbs proved fruitless; harsh hempen rope bound her to a chair, digging into the still-raw burns around her wrists.

At this point she was fairly certain she was awake. A low-burning fire crackled softly in a hearth behind the chair she was tied to. Its warmth might have been comforting, in any other scenario. Bria knew this room, however. A table stood not far from her, an assortment of tools displayed atop it - some still crusted over with blood of previous occupants.

Panic began clawing its way up her throat, but she swallowed it back down. She had no time for hysteria. She had to focus.

She tried shaking off the grogginess of sleep - had she been drugged? How hadn’t she noticed being taken from her cell? Whatever the answer, it mattered little now. She trained her functioning brain power elsewhere.

Nobody else was in the room with her. A relief, but it would be a short-lived one. She scanned the rest of the room: shackles bolted to the walls, torture racks nearby, the table full of tools. A stool was situated off to her right, the water trough she had been acquainted with last session was to her left - it had been drained - and the fire murmured quietly behind her. Though her range of motion was restricted, she could see from the corner of her eye a long pair of wrought-iron tongs sticking from the fireplace.

Bria tested her restraints with a grimace: the rope tying her legs were taut, but her wrist bindings had some give. Not enough to slip out of without a remarkable amount of pain and effort. But it gave her the slightest glimmer of hope, and that’s all she needed. She started pulling. It was agony, but she kept tugging - changing her pull every few moments to loosen the bindings. She gritted her teeth and tried to distract herself.

She surveyed the room a second time, double-checking her original assessment. This was a setup Bria was unfamiliar with. What had he concocted for her today?

As if to answer her silent question, the door opposite her swung open on soundless hinges. In marched a pair of guards. The one taking the forefront she recognized. A grizzled, boorish man in his early forties with a slight underbite, an engorged stomach from daily ale consumption, and a penchant for being ruthless with his captives. He was lightly armored and similarly armed, with only a short sword at his side. He smiled at Bria as he walked in, those unsettling beady eyes riding up and down her form. Bria fought the urge to vomit.

As Grizzly took up post beside the door, the second guard did the same for the opposite side. He, too, wore the same light armaments. Only Bria didn’t recognize this man, or, more accurately, this boy. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, and Bria could tell by his expression and body language that he was nervous. Scared, almost. This might even be his first torture session, Bria considered. She spared a moment to wonder if the boy had been the one to tie her wrist bindings.

Her musings were cut short as the third and final occupant of the room slithered in. He was a tall man, who might have passed for muscular if he weren’t so lanky, with hawkish features and a long and sharp nose. The eyes were his most perturbing characteristics: whether through magical means or a trick of the light - Bria could never tell which - his eyes had no visible color. They were devoid of life - devoid of reason, and morals. Never in her life had Bria believed pure malevolence could take physical form, until those eyes bored into her own. They made her feel small; powerless.

But most of all, she felt resentment. White hot fury flashed through every fiber of her being the moment their eyes locked. She tugged ever harder on her bindings, but nothing gave.

“Glad you could join us today,” Gaelan murmured in a voice most reminiscent of a metal grinder wrapped in velvet. It was cold; articulate. Harsh but delicate. It made her skin crawl. It took everything she had to keep from screaming obscenities at him. No, he’d want that. He wants her to lose it. Bria took a breath, and remembered her plan. She needed him to get angry - get sloppy. Today, she was going to make his skin crawl.

“Oh, this?” She said, feigning a grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Though I gotta say, doesn’t it usually take two hands to torture someone?”

Almost unconsciously, Gaelan moved the stump that used to be his right hand - the very same that Bria had severed - behind him, clasping his remaining hand over its wrist. The viper’s smile was wiped from his face, supplanted with a dangerously thin scowl. He began deliberately pacing around the room, stopping here and there to examine a tool or test the strength of a wall-chain. Bria noticed that, though the room was soundproofed, he left the door open. He enjoyed letting the screams of his victims echo for all to hear.

“I presume you’ve discerned why I haven’t gutted you and left you to rot in a gutter, yes?” Gaelan sifted through some of the smaller tools on the side table. He answered himself as Bria fell to silence: “Death would be a welcome respite for you, wouldn’t it?” He turned to face her, a venomous leer overtaking his features - a scalpel in his hand. “Goodness, no. You must be made an example of.”

He stepped closer, the surgeon’s tool twirling in the fingers of his good hand. Bria’s breathing quickened. She wanted to stare him down, to not show any weakness, but she couldn’t stop a pained cry from escaping as the miniscule blade parted the flesh of her forearm. She grounded her teeth together and shut her eyes as blood flowed freely from the wound, down her wrists, wetting her hands. This merely encouraged him.

“No, no no. You, I will break.” The scalpel lifted for a brief, blissful second, before carving through another part of her arm. Bria bit down harder, clamped her eyelids firmer. Gaelan sliced through her arms like they were a canvas; the scalpel his brush; Bria’s blood his paint. Viscous red liquid cascaded down her arms, and through the hemp binding her hands together. Bria shuddered, and jerked, and silent tears streamed down her face. But she did not cry out. She did not scream. She knew Gaelan was waiting for it, and she wouldn’t give the devil the satisfaction.

Gaelan was skilled at his craft. His incisions were precise; exact. He never cut so deeply as to maim, but always enough to cause excruciating pain. Hours, minutes, or perhaps even seconds later, Gaelan set his artist’s tool down. Bria let herself breathe. She could barely think, barely move. Her arms were a bloody, agonizing mess, but she could tell her muscles were still intact. She gave a tug on her restraints. It was like packing each of her new wounds with salt; the pain was nigh unbearable. But she felt it - the bindings, slick with blood and sweat, were loosening.

“Death does not come for you today, Bria Traeger,” Gaelan proclaimed in a spine-chilling purr, as he walked to the hearth behind her and grasped the tongs. With them he pulled a white-hot, half-molten brick of metal from the flames. He waved the block precariously close to Bria’s face. The heat caused a fresh drip of sweat from her temple, and Bria swallowed her fear. She felt Gaelan’s severed stump gracelessly brush the hair from the back of her neck, and she shuddered anew. The viper leaned in, so close that she could feel his breath stinging her ear. In a virulent whisper he uttered, “But I do.

Searing pain shot through Bria as the brick pressed against the flesh of her neck. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry. The agony was more than she’d ever felt before; she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Every sensation was on fire - white, scorching, unrelenting fire. She bucked and battled against her restraints, against the metal brick sizzling through her skin, but her attempts were futile. A single thought pushed its way through the pain, and she clung to it like a life raft:

I will not scream. I will not scream. I will not scream.

Gaelan leaned in impossibly closer, his voice cracking through Bria’s resolve.

“And you. Will. Submit.”

He pressed harder on the tongs.

Bria screamed.

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Burt Macklin, FBI
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Re: Submit.

Post by Burt Macklin, FBI » Sun Dec 17, 2017 7:15 pm

Gaelan circled Bria, a veritable shark in the waters of his own exultation. He thrived on her misery; basked in it like a reptile sunning itself for warmth. Bria could think of any number of other scaly creatures to compare the man to, but she had lost her spark - the raging fire inside her was all but embers.

Bria slouched in the torturer’s chair, head hung dejectedly. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, her cheeks stained wet with tears. She could still feel the molten brick against her neck, though Gaelan had removed it some time ago. The burn had left her in shock, and Gaelan’s taunting had shredded through her fury, her resentment. She was left with abjection. Hopelessness. Bria hadn’t even tested her restraints again. She knew they wouldn’t give.

Gaelan, meanwhile, had placed the metal back into the hearth and bellowed the flames with errant disinterest. His focus was glued onto Bria, watching her slowly crack, and break. Gaelan further hammered the wedge of despondency into her conscience, resuming circuits around his victim: “You bend, and you twist. You’re resilient. I admire that, Bria.”

She brought her head up enough to glare at the man through her messy and tangled hair. He continued. “I quite enjoy this game of ours. Some take weeks to break; others, less than a day. The rare few crack before a knife even breaches their flesh.” Gaelan sneered, as if the thought of not having an excuse to torture someone offended him. The snake’s leer met Bria’s gaze again, with a new intensity. “But you-” A malicious laugh crept out of his mouth. “You are a true challenge. And, while I appreciate your efforts, I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” Gaelan stopped directly in front of Bria, bending at the waist to bring their faces near each other. Bria refused to look up, so Gaelan gripped her chin with his only remaining hand and forced her to meet his eyes. “You see,” he continued, “you all bend, and you twist, but each of you has one thing in common: you all break.”

With their faces so close Bria prepared to spit on his, but Gaelan saw it coming this time. He let go of her chin, and the back of his hand cracked against Bria’s skull. She blinked at the sudden sting, working her jaw back and forth. Gaelan sneered, standing to his full height and continuing his pacing.

“Your spark is laudable. Jason was the same way, at first.” The flame in Bria’s gut stoked as Gaelan uttered that name. She turned to stare him down. He was already staring back, a serpent’s smile splayed over his face. “It’s Jason, isn’t it? Your little friend in cell block A?”

Bria’s arms went taut against their restraints; she involuntarily tried to lunge at Gaelan. He didn’t flinch. He walked back to the hearth. “Oh, yes. He’s going to suffer, too. Just because of you. How does that make you feel?” His good hand lifted the tongs, plucking that dreadful, red-hot metal brick free again. Bria swallowed another round of curses climbing up her throat. She wasn’t sure if she could take another session of that.

Gaelan came around to her front, this time, hovering the brick eye-level with her. “He’s going to suffer, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Bria tugged her arms again, gritting her teeth. “Leave him out of this, you bastard! This is between you and me!” She couldn’t stop herself from shouting. Bria regretted her exclamations even as they left her mouth, but she was furious. He was baiting her, and it was working.

Gaelan’s smirk went so wide it almost divided his face in twain. “Ah, touched a nerve, have I? I’ll be sure to devote my utmost attention to bringing out his anguish.” A moment later, he loosened his clutch on the tongs. Time slowed. Bria watched the half-molten brick of metal as it tumbled through the air - and landed directly in her lap. Her trousers stopped the initial shock, but it had burned through them before she could think. She struggled and squirmed; scorching heat lanced through her legs despite her efforts.

“The more you contest,” Gaelan continued, “the more you resist, the more I will make him beg for mercy.”

Gaelan’s voice sliced through the unimaginable pain Bria was experiencing. She focused on it. She let it stoke the inferno inside of her.

“The more I will make him writhe.”

Bria bit down and heaved at her restraints. Her vision blurred red; her other senses began to fade as a blazing fierceness, hot as the metal burning her flesh, permeated her being. Gaelan leaned forward again, to make sure Bria could hear his last utterance.

“The more I will make him scream.”

A barbaric cry tore from Bria's lips, and she yanked at her restraints with all her might. The combination of the slickness of the ropes, the shoddy knot tying, and Bria’s blinding fury caused her right hand to finally fly free. A fist formed mid-air and she used the momentum to crack it against the side of Gaelan’s face. It was the last thing he was expecting, and the lanky man hit the floor hard. He had dropped his tongs in the process, so Bria swiftly grabbed them and aimed another swing at Gaelan. He was just recovering from the punch when the wrought-iron pounded into his skull. He hit the floor again, and this time didn’t stir.

The guards on either side of the door took some time to realize what was happening. Grizzly was the first to act - short sword in hand he charged Bria with a horizontal swing. Though her arms were free, her ankles were still bound to the chair, and the brick of metal was still crackling in her lap. She could barely feel it anymore, rage having taken over her senses.

Bria brought her tongs up to deflect the blow. Grizzly had overextended and was now within grappling distance. Her left hand grabbed the half-molten metal from her lap - and though it sizzled and boiled she ignored it. She stood and dropped the tongs, wrapping her right arm around Grizzly’s sword arm so he couldn’t swing again. Her left hand reared back, and she slammed the brick into the guard’s face, directly over his eye. He screamed, dropping his sword, as the flesh melted from his face. She held it there as long as she could bear it, before shoving both the brick and the man backwards. He fell to the floor and clawed at his eye.

Bria’s left hand was a charred mess now, but it was worth it. Next in line was the boy - he was hesitant, unsure. His training eventually won through as he charged an overhead swing. Bria was now weaponless, and still tied to the chair. She rolled to her right - or, more accurately, fell - and landed hard. The boy’s sword cleaved through the air she had just been in, and embedded itself in her sideways chair - cutting through the rope binding her legs. She kicked her legs free and rolled away, grabbing Grizzly’s discarded sword and standing to face the boy. He pried his sword free and faced Bria. He looked… scared.

Bria felt a moment’s pity before he lunged again. She dodged to the left of the stab, knocking the blade out of her way as she stepped forward and smashed the butt of her sword against the boy’s head. He hit the floor like a bag of sand, and didn’t get back up.

Bria surveyed the battle. Two unconscious bodies, and Grizzly, rolling around in agony. In her fury she stalked over to the man and stomped a boot against his head. His skull rebounded off stone, and he was still.

Bria spent the next few minutes dragging both guards to the wall chains and clamping them in. Neither had woken, and she preferred it stayed that way. To be safe, she gagged them both with cloth from their own tunics. With those two taken care of, she turned her eyes to Gaelan. He hadn’t moved. Bria slowly made her way to the open door of the chamber, and shut it.



Gaelan’s eyes opened sluggishly. Bria noticed him stirring, and walked around to face him. “So glad you could join us,” She said mockingly, in her best impression of the viper. His eyes opened wide and he started to struggle - but he was tied to the same chair Bria was bound to only moments before.

“No, no, no!” He cried in vain, bucking against his restraints. Bria didn’t hear him. She casually walked around to the hearth, where the metal brick had been heating. Using the tongs, she pulled them free and walked back around to face Gaelan. Leaning in close, she saw into those colorless eyes of his. For the first time, she saw emotion inside of them. She saw fear.

A small, nearly inaudible voice in the back of Bria’s head told her not to do it. Told her not to stoop to his level; to be better than him.

She almost listened.

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