In the darkness

[Altias_Bromn]

Breathing was difficult. The wound on his chest, twice struck in as many days, first by Alexander, then by the thug with a club, hurt him in a way he had never been hurt before. Even the thought of opening his eyes seemed to be more energy than he thought he could spare from the act of drawing breath.

It was damp where he lay. So damp that Altias could feel mud betwen his fingers, when finally he began to try and explore the area around him. The scent was heavy with moisture, damp hay, perhaps, spread as some sort of bed above the dirt and rocks. But beneath that scent was one far more familiar. Vanilla.

No. It could not be. Certainly those who took him from Gad's house were simply...simply what? Baking cakes? Not likely. Finally he pryed his eyes open. There was little difference, the cave, perhaps a cell?, in which he lay was quite dark. As his eyes adjusted, shadows became more clear, showing just how small the cell really was.

In the far corner, the other side of the cell, was a mound of dirtied white. A white that Altias would know anywhere.

He tried to rise, but apparently the mage working for De'Rouge had struck him over the head before bringing him here. The headache was blinding. Determining that perhaps trying to walk was not the best idea, Altias crawled across the cell.

The bundle of white grew more clear as he approached. The coat, the hair. Oh why had they done this? A hand snaked out to shake the shoulder of the fallen man.

"Kanashia. Sir Kanashia. Alexander!" His voice a harsh whisper, never really raising above his normal tone of voice.

"Alex...please wake up. We have to get out of here. We have to find Violet and Gad. Alex...please...they'll kill us if we don't find a way out of here."

The councilor's voice remained calm. He knew that the odds were against them, but they had to try. And to try, he had to awaken Alexander. Together they might be able to pull this off, but neither man alone would do.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is a sharp, thin pain; it lances through her shoulder just as De'rouge's blade had -- a stiletto, by her judgement, narrow and piercing. A wicked blade.

She hasn't quite been able to assess the damage it's done to the limb, just as she hasn't quite made out the details of their cell; the walls are stone, the ground damp and earthy and equipped with two straw mats. One for each of them.

This had been planned.

They've been kept in darkness, in silence, and she'd commend their judgement if they'd once returned; as it is, she can only award De'rouge with some small respect, in the quietness of her own mind. He'd done well, with this. He'd done well to get them both, and the other -- two? It must be two -- as well. She's had to wonder about Heldenbrand, though; he is the one figure that doesn't fit into this scenario, the one who has no reason whatsoever for being here. A random choice, and it has her puzzled. They could have left him when they'd taken her, after all. They could have killed him.

They probably should have.

But then, of course, their planning had only reached so far. Here is frustration: that she cannot reach the other pair, cannot explain to them who has brought them here, and why -- for she, of all in Myrken Wood, knows precisely who De'rouge is, and she alone can guess at the sort of revenge he intends. They'd seen each other's faces, upon a time. Months ago, and it still amazed her that he'd remembered hers, for he'd been quite busy at the time with cracking a guard's skull open upon the gaol's floor.

Hah. Idiocy. Of course he'd remember. He'd been taught the ways of vengeance, had this one; he would remember each instant, each heartbeat, of that night. Certainly, he would remember each face.

Frustration. No: helplessness, in the face of growing pain and a body that's more crippled than not. They are isolated here, barely able to mark the passing of time, and a woman could give in to her despair, perhaps, save for these things: her beloved pair are safe from harm yet (he'd have hunted Vornheim that day, most assuredly, if he'd known of her relation to the man), and the pain of her shoulder sharpens with each hour.

He'd intended it as a scourge, a reminder that it's he who controls her destiny, a small torture. It's become, however, a spur that encourages her towards the violence that will eventually come. He has had close to a year, now, to learn the true depth of vengeance. She, however, has had a lifetime.