Abdirak (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pained_expression) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
boxofmisfits2024-08-10 05:23 pm
pained_expression) wrote in boxofmisfits2024-08-10 05:23 pm
Pain and Power
The roads were treacherous, yet the Absolute's forces were largely unbothered by Abdirak's presence. The poor dear drider had been quite displeased to aid a follower of a 'false queen', but the goblins had accepted him as an acquaintance of their torturer, and been quite eager to ask him about his work. "Takes the mind off this creepy place," one of them said.
Pity none of them had any greater understanding of his Mistress' domain.
The sight of their army, however, had made him unwilling to stay and teach them. War inflicted pain upon so many, but it was not its object. This was not a place for him. With the good word from the goblins--and a brief but illuminating encounter with some of their drow superiors--he was allowed to continue on.
But alas, as always, 'civilized' peoples were fare less welcoming. The banner of Ilmater could be seen on Rivington's tallest tower. If they had any paladins in residence, they might kill him on sight.
He'd covered himself to hide Her symbol, but ill fortune found him just before he could reach Wyrm's Crossing--the Ilmatari were in a grim frenzy over the murder of a Father Lorgan, one of their number loudly blaming refugees for the killing.
How could he remain silent in the face of such unfounded nonsense? Particularly when the refugees themselves were suffering from the shock, and would never find loving solace from such misguided, selfish creatures! It was an outrage that their disrespect for pain was put so flagrantly on display in their mourning.
It didn't take long for them to suspect the truth, and by then, the Flaming Fist had closed in on him, arresting him on suspicion of involvement in the murder. The arrival of some sort of gigantic automaton quelled any thoughts of resistance of escape.
Now he was being led across the drawbridge to Wyrm's Rock. "What exactly do you plan to do?" he asked them, anger and a tinge of fear curdling into acid. "Interrogate me?"
"Keep quiet," one of the Fists barked, and Abdirak let out a gasp of pain as the pommel of a sword thudded against his back. Inexpertly done, but it was still enough to make him laugh.
"You don't know who my Mistress is, do you?"
"We don't care, unless she shows up at visitation hours," the Fist replied. "You're not going anywhere."
"Indeed, though not for lack of trying," he glares at the one that's confiscated his tools. "This conversation is more painful than--hngh!" Another blow, making him stumble this time. "--Your terrible technique, dear one. If you mean to make me confess to a murder I didn't commit--" A punch to the gut knocks the wind from him, opening up one of his marks of devotion in the process. "--You're going to have to improve."
Another blow, and this time it forces him into silence. "I wasn't done," the Fist says. "You're not going anywhere, 'cept probably the gallows."
He struggles to catch his breath. In truth, he is frightened. Not of their pain, but of their unthinking violence. They've accused him of a hanging offense, and what will stop them from deciding his guilt merely by association with his faith?
Oh most loving Mistress, let your servant live to suffer for you, and to spread your word.
Pity none of them had any greater understanding of his Mistress' domain.
The sight of their army, however, had made him unwilling to stay and teach them. War inflicted pain upon so many, but it was not its object. This was not a place for him. With the good word from the goblins--and a brief but illuminating encounter with some of their drow superiors--he was allowed to continue on.
But alas, as always, 'civilized' peoples were fare less welcoming. The banner of Ilmater could be seen on Rivington's tallest tower. If they had any paladins in residence, they might kill him on sight.
He'd covered himself to hide Her symbol, but ill fortune found him just before he could reach Wyrm's Crossing--the Ilmatari were in a grim frenzy over the murder of a Father Lorgan, one of their number loudly blaming refugees for the killing.
How could he remain silent in the face of such unfounded nonsense? Particularly when the refugees themselves were suffering from the shock, and would never find loving solace from such misguided, selfish creatures! It was an outrage that their disrespect for pain was put so flagrantly on display in their mourning.
It didn't take long for them to suspect the truth, and by then, the Flaming Fist had closed in on him, arresting him on suspicion of involvement in the murder. The arrival of some sort of gigantic automaton quelled any thoughts of resistance of escape.
Now he was being led across the drawbridge to Wyrm's Rock. "What exactly do you plan to do?" he asked them, anger and a tinge of fear curdling into acid. "Interrogate me?"
"Keep quiet," one of the Fists barked, and Abdirak let out a gasp of pain as the pommel of a sword thudded against his back. Inexpertly done, but it was still enough to make him laugh.
"You don't know who my Mistress is, do you?"
"We don't care, unless she shows up at visitation hours," the Fist replied. "You're not going anywhere."
"Indeed, though not for lack of trying," he glares at the one that's confiscated his tools. "This conversation is more painful than--hngh!" Another blow, making him stumble this time. "--Your terrible technique, dear one. If you mean to make me confess to a murder I didn't commit--" A punch to the gut knocks the wind from him, opening up one of his marks of devotion in the process. "--You're going to have to improve."
Another blow, and this time it forces him into silence. "I wasn't done," the Fist says. "You're not going anywhere, 'cept probably the gallows."
He struggles to catch his breath. In truth, he is frightened. Not of their pain, but of their unthinking violence. They've accused him of a hanging offense, and what will stop them from deciding his guilt merely by association with his faith?
Oh most loving Mistress, let your servant live to suffer for you, and to spread your word.