Pain and Power

[pained_expression]

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.

Comments

[slitheringmalice]

Of course, Gortash had heard about the arrest, since the Flaming Fist are in his pocket, and when a notable arrest is made, then he knows about it. He's aware of the murder in the temple, and he's more than sure that Orin and her cult are behind it. He also has a hard time believing that Orin would get herself arrested, and that her followers probably have measures against getting arrested.

Thus, here he is, going down into the prison to see the offending party for himself, the Flaming Fist guards letting him through after he pulls rank. He needs a moment before he recognizes the scarred man as the priest who was allowed into the goblins' stronghold. They didn't exactly talk during any of Gortash's visits there, but the man was rather hard to miss among the stout creatures.

"So, I see you survived the massacre at the goblin stronghold."

[pained_expression]

They took his holy symbol--whether they realized it or not, the poor, ignorant things, they seemed more concerned about the sharp edges on his vestments. But he didn't need it to bare his faith to the world, not when the points of the scourge had carved nine scars into his skin. He could still draw on them for magic.

He might need to, if he is to survive this. And he should pray properly before entreating the Mistress for her power.

But before he can do much more than dig his nails into his wounds, barely enough to compel a groan of pain, he hears something. Voices--one of them distantly familiar.

Once he sees the source, memory instantly returns--how could it not? The man had cut quite the striking figure among the goblins, giving their priestess orders from the Absolute.

"Was that their fate? They had lost their leaders when I made my exit." Poor benighted creatures. Perhaps in death they would be improved, though he did not know where their faith would send them.

"In that case, it is good to see you whole, dear one." His wrists were shackled, but he did his best to properly bow all the same. "I'm afraid my fortune has not held--the Illmatari have falsely accused me of murder." Yet now he has hope. He does not know this man, but whoever he is, he obviously has influence here. "The only blood on my hands today is my own."

[slitheringmalice]

"My agents reported that the temple is littered with goblin corpses, so I can assume that whoever killed the leaders chose to finish the job." He wasn't too torn up about it, since goblins make for cheap followers, and they were nothing but arrow fodder anyway. There's plenty more where they came from.

"Yes, that unfortunate matter at the temple. Very sad." He didn't sound very sad. "The Flaming Fist seem to believe that the culprit was a suspicious man in the garb of a Loviatar follower."

[pained_expression]

"A shame. They were crude, but they kept interesting company." People that gained the Mistress' favour. What a delight that had been, to hear honest, raw cries from a new penitent submitting to Her grace!

But further mention of the false accusation pollutes any thoughts of the divine. "I am a torturer, not an executioner. To suggest I would kill a man and end his pain--especially for an Illmatari! It is an insult." The carelessness that would require of him! He couldn't bear the thought. Still, whoever had killed him had shaken the blasphemous stoicism of the rest. Perhaps they should be thanked for it.

And it seems this man before him doesn't think much of the accusations, or the death in general. "They focus on the death of one benighted man, and distract themselves from more pressing matters--I have heard tell that the Absolute's forces are advancing toward Baldur's Gate." He gestures with bound hands toward the outer walls, a small smile returning to his lips. "And they seem to be quite devious sorts."

He had thought to leave the city before a siege began, but to find one of the Absolute's operatives here, within the city's greatest line of defense? Perhaps there will be no war at all.