Purging the Records
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ALL THE MANAS
Joined: 01:08:50 AM 04/10/07
Location: Sabotaging the Throne
"Damned wolves!"
The seeping of blood trickled down Rishkin's arm, his left hand curled around the punctures made by the pack creature. Scowling, he failed to notice the figure that seemingly appeared before him.
"Mister Rishkin? Are you okay?"
AJ had taken note of the man, clad in wizardly robes, holding the open wound in a pitiful attempt to stave off disease.
"Oh, yes, save for the soon to be infection." Anestar walked across the lone path, over to him, sliding her knapsack from her shoulder, allowing it to fall to the ground with a mild clump. "Would not be surprised if they are rabid..." Rishkin's voice trails off, still a tone of anger in the aspect one wolf had managed to latch onto his arm, and yanked flesh from muscle.
AJ's voice was comforting, if not confident. "I haven't had a patient turn rabid yet, Mister Rishkin. Relax and let me take a look." The necromancer extended his arm out to her, complete with a wince and a minor yelp as the arm stretched the wound. The young healer took the injured appendage, and began looking over the grisly sight, unknown that a Feywood elf had walked up to the two of them. With a staff in hand, the elf's face had shown instant disdain, and sneered in Rishkin's direction, yet his voice was directed at the girl.
"What are you doing with HIM?" A hint of outrage, and a dash of shock was in his voice.
Rishkin glanced to the elf, and returned the sneer, intent on scaring off the wizened defender. "Don't tell me you're still angry about that thing a long time ago..."
All the while, AJ seemed to ignore the confrontation, intent on fixing the wound that had been applied by the creature of the woods. Yet, the elf persisted with his outburst. "You are no friend to the elves!"
Oh, how Rishkin tried to resist talking back to him. How he tried, and succumbed to his arrogance. "Very good." He gave a smile, practically taunting the elf with his demeanor. "Are you always this perceptive?"
"You… YOU!"
Catching Rishkin entirely by surprise, the elf swung that staff, striking a point on his neck. A point that could only have been learned by a trained professional to incapacitate.
Rishkin faded to black, unaware of what transpired afterward.
He woke hours later, the sun starting its decline into nightfall, the tree canopy no longer shining down beams of light upon this mortal creature. Glancing around, he noticed a few things must have taken place while he was under paralysis.
AJ was gone, along with the elf. Yet, the pack of things that she had unceremoniously dropped had remained. His arm ached with soreness, despite the bandage that had lost its freshness not too long prior. He rubbed his neck, thinking for a moment on how much a stick to the neck actually hurt. Picking up the bag, he mused about the wielder of said weapon. Using his foot, he swept around the area where this altercation happened, and walked southward.
It was not until he was halfway to his residence, when he realized what really happened, and a smile lit up his face.
Rishkin Templar--Gothic Death Prophet. GREATEST DEATHS COLLECTION
Winthrop--Hardest Death Artist. Resistance - Knife Party
Five thousand, two hundred and seventy-three…
Drip…. Drip, drip….
Five thousand, two hundred and seventy-four…
Drip, drip, drip… drip-drip.
Five thousand, two hundred and seventy-five…
She repressed a shudder, just as she had all the others. She wouldn't show any signs of weakness. She wouldn't give them the pleasure. Her mind began to wander, as it had so many times before, over the blurry, confused images of what had taken place to get her where she was now, in this cold, dark, dripping prison, chained by the ankle next to a person who'd long since died.
A forest: serene, quiet. A cry, damning the wolves for some reason. Such anger in the voice, but even so, it was recognizable. The face was familiar to her since she'd seen it many times before. "Mister Rishkin?" her own voice spoke. It seemed like forever ago, now. "Are you okay?" Her eyes focused on the bleeding wound and without hesitation she strode forward. What else could she have done as a healer? Her mother's words rang in her subconscious mind, warning her to stay away from him. They were alone here, there was no telling when the next passerby would happen across her should he attempt to harm her. Her mind wandered to a pouch on her hip containing a powerful black stone that could rid him of his powers, would the effects hold long enough for her to take him down? Could she possibly kill him faster than he could cast a spell to end her life? Would he even attempt?
Rabid, he said. With confidence she spoke, offering him a smile of comfort. "I haven't had a patient turn rabid yet, Mister Rishkin. Relax and let me take a look." She held out her hands. She was vulnerable and well aware of it. With both of her hands on his arm, her back was exposed and her hands weren't in immediate reach of her weapons, or the stone, but she pushed those thoughts aside, trying to be civil. The injury wasn't so bad, she set to cleaning and patching it up quickly. She heard the approach of small, elven feet just moments before the first cry. "What are you doing with HIM?"
The memory started to get blurry.
A conflict of words between the elf and Rishkin and she had completed her work before she realized the full context: Rishkin was an enemy of Feywood… and she had just healed him before the eyes of a guard. She would be in trouble for this, but hopefully the elf would see reason. The elves were not unfamiliar with her. She had followed the guards on occasion, offering assistance against the gnolls, healing as necessary. She hardly had time to even be surprised by the attack as the elf's staff shot out to strike Rishkin's neck, leaving him rigid and unable to move. AJ pulled back, turning to speak to the elf, trying to communicate, but even her words were unheard. The elf turned on her and attacked, aiming for her head. Unable to block the blow, she didn't even remember falling...
Blurrier than the last memory had been was another, shorter.
She was being carried, thrown over an invisible man's shoulder. She couldn't see him but that didn't stop her from fighting, even if she couldn't see herself. She kicked, pinched, punched, grabbed at anything she could to hurt and make the carriers' life difficult. He growled, pinning her tightly to him, pushing all the air out of her lungs. He snarled something, a threat by the tone of his voice, but she couldn't recall the words as she had struggled to regain her breath. The spell faltered, she could see herself, soon followed by him. The Feywood elf?
As she began to struggle again, not willing to let herself be taken, a terrible realization came upon her. She recognized the area, she'd been here before, but why would a Feywood elf bring her here? He wouldn't…
"What are you? Syann?!" She hadn't been thinking when she had blurted the word.
The memory died here, she had no recollection of why.
Footsteps, the sound of a door opening stirred her mind back to the present. Her eyes opened in time to catch the bright glare of light from the open door shooting pain through her head again, riling a headache she'd long since forgotten about, before the door was shut once more. Someone was in the room with her, she could hear a soft sizzling, like acid eating at something. After allowing a moment for her night-vision to recover, she felt her stomach churn in anger, and a little bit of fear, at the sight of the elf, straight out of her memory.
Two slices of bread.
That would be enough to sustain for one day. Two, if she managed to keep it out of the dripping water. The man in the white robes walked with a very graceful style, both slabs on a metallic tray that has spots of rust and corrosion. It almost gave the tray a pattern motif, which seemed odd in itself as the feet plodded down along the dimly-lit hallway. Visibility was something that was not needed in this hall, for the hall was not at all meant for people to explore. You only knew the place if you lived there.
A jingle of keys rattled, one of them going into the door, the faint sound of tumblers being the only sounds that echoed across the expanse of darkness. The door sliding open, the person serving the food was bathed in a wash of torch lights, stepping across the boundary between darkness, and nearly darkness. Spots of blood lined the floor, walls, and even the various furniture ornamentation.
If one considered a hanging gallows furniture, that is.
One door was shut, before the second, much more sturdy door, got the same treatment. Key placed into slot, the sound of a heavy, thick lock sliding to an alternate status. As the door opened, the torchlight washed this new room with light, practically blinding the sole occupant with the sudden change.
The tray was unceremoniously dropped to the ground, centered in the droplets of water that continued to trickle through the roof of the building. If the bread was not scooped up immediately, her meal would spoil, and she would have to wait two more days before any attention would be paid to her.
"Today is your lucky day," the helmed voice mused. He produced a single sheet of paper, a single feather, and a bottle of ink, that had only a fragment of its capacity. "You get to write one letter, and it will be to your mother."
Watching the figure for a moment, he continued on. "You tell her she has done something very bad, and you are being punished for her mistake. Failure to do so will result in a beating, and then you'll write it again."
The white helm never took his eyes off of her. "You tell her, that if she wants to see you alive, she is to fix her mistake. She'll know what she did, and she'll fix it." With both arms at his side, perfectly calm, he keeps the stare on the frail figure, with the anklet that binds her to the room.
"Write anything else that we do not approve of, you'll write it again, missing some teeth. And..." looking over the figure. "You are pretty, do not make us tarnish your image."
Without making another word, he turns, making two strides to the door, closing it with a small slam. The prisoner hears the sliding of the lock, the security in the fact that she is alone.
1. Malachai Ibn
2. Torthoril