[SO - Cyphrus] Pinched

[Gideon]

13th of Spring, 513 AV There are times we find ourselves in the midst of a choice we are slowly regretting. Hindsight becomes our worst enemy, and doubt begins to fill the cracks where confidence once dwelt. Living with some of these choices becomes unbearable for many, especially if it heralds the advent of one’s death. I never found merit in agonizing over these things. We inevitably make bad choices. But what direction is there to move except forward? The pragmatist of course would say: easier said than done. There are things such as guilt to keep us grounded in the past, pillars that chain us to what we could not accomplish. The only advice I can give to you right now is…if you’re faced with such dilemma, just know you only do yourself great disservice by not continuing the path to its end. No matter the outcome. At first, Gideon’s world was little more than a pulse of hazy white light stretched against a curtain of darkness and minced with the sound of water splashing against a barnacled hull. He could smell nothing, see nothing, taste nothing, touch nothing. In this world, it was difficult to formulate a single concise thought, which meant that opening ones eyes required more than an act of will. It almost felt as if the sellsword were a prisoner of his own body in this state, blocked from what gave his very existence any definable meaning. In fact, at this moment, Gideon couldn’t even be sure that this was his own body. Unable to dream, but also unable to wake, it was chaos, and it was calm. Time lacked definition, scattered to the ether like pin pricks of burning starlight. Any hope of tracing a path ahead or behind was lost, leaving one to question if time was driven towards any purpose at all. But at least something was happening, outside of this indefinable, disorganized world. Water was moving, shifting, lurching. Gideon could feel his body being lifted against the walls of gravity, then released slowly back down into a gentle lull. Whether Tanroa’s silent fingers were manipulating the strands of time suddenly seemed irrelevant, but something was happening. “I think he’s coming around.” The voice was little more than a bee buzzing within the sellsword’s ears, a sensation he would have swatted away had he the capacity to move. “Yeh, think yer right.” Another bee, harsher in its humming cadence. Closer, too. Gideon could feel an amorphous presence hovering just beyond the curtain, heat pouring out of it and onto his skin. It was followed almost immediately by the sensation of pain, the white pulsing light within the dark growing rapidly like a sunrise across the sand covered wastes. It splintered out as cracks forming within the earth, and faded into nothing once it had stretched its way across the blackness. “Wake up, you sodden pile o’ filth. We gots to talk.” The buzzing had become words, in a language he could flimsily grasp. The pain he felt had mysteriously ignited his sense of smell among other things, the stench of stale grog and acrid brine filling his nostrils, flaring and then pinching in steep disapproval. When he drew his first deep breath, Gideon could tell that something was constraining his chest--keeping him from filling his lungs as he’d intended. Bonds of some sort lay coiled around like a snake weakly squeezing the life from its prey. His muscles instinctively flexed, more a test against its tensile strength than an attempt to break free. “I said wake up!” Pain shot across the void again, the jagged crevices of white light opening up into an all encompassing maw, fleeing to the recesses of endless space as eyelids fluttered open. The dim light of the room made it easy for eyes to adjust, the sound of a sea swell washing harmlessly against the vessel’s planked wall. Every speckle of detail was coming back to him now. How he’d gotten here. What had happened before. What city he was in, and likely what city he was to end up in. It was not by choice that Gideon found himself in these circumstances, as was evidenced by the ties that grounded him firmly to the chair he sat in. Or was it? Two other figures stood across from him in this abysmally furnished room, mere silhouettes that consumed the shadows around them, drawn up as cloaks that revealed only the beady whites of their eyes. There was a menacing sort of air about them that stretched well beyond what shadow alone could conjure. They did not like Gideon, and perhaps were almost uncomfortable with the very idea of standing in this cramped room with him. But it was obvious to all involved that they held a distinct advantage, and relished it with a certain arrogance often found in cats whom had cornered mice. The dark haired captive simply stared at them, silent as death.

[Gideon]

“That’s a good little mongrel.” The tone was laden with a condescending purr, its groomed accent one that was found midst the silvered tongues of Ahnatep’s teat-suckling elite. That was not to say this particular one was bred from their ilk, however. So few of the four armed swine who carried themselves as aristocrats generally were. More a dilettante of their culture perhaps, an errand boy sent to do his master’s dirty work. Gideon wondered just how much money the Eypharian was being paid to ferry the sellsword’s body across open waters. No doubt they thought he might fetch some decent coin up north or to the west. Places where his prize seemed less likely to try and escape. “Wer’mai?” Only in attempting to speak did Gideon realize just how sore his jaw truly was, the pain wreaking havoc across a stubbled chin as his head rolled off to the side with a penetrating groan. This inspired a laugh from the other two occupants within the room, though one seemed to take more delight in it than the other; this second shadow. A slaver of some sort, if the sellsword had to guess. Or perhaps just a sadist along for the ride. In either case, he was much shorter than the Eypharian, and the more likely candidate for whom among them smelled like stale grog. “Oh, you are about as safe as you’ll ever be,” chimed in the first shadow, the pearly whites of his teeth shimmering like hungry fangs in the darkness. “This is the Duneswallow, a merchant vessel that will see us all quite safely up to Ze--” “’E don’t need’ta know that!” snapped the second shadow, turning on his coconspirator with venom laced upon his tongue. His mangled accent could have placed him anywhere as far as Gideon was concerned, but the seas seemed to be his likely home. Muffled curses swept from the man’s tongue like a sheet of canvas being unraveled, turning back on their prisoner as he stepped in and smashed a knotted fist into Gideon’s stomach without so much as a warning. “You’ll keep your bleedin’ nose out of it, swagga’,” he growled, spitting a disgusting globule of black phlegm atop his victim’s straw colored scalp. Hunched over as much as bonds would allow, Gideon choked upon the fetid air, recoiling from the blow to his abdomen, spittle crawling thickly down the side of his face. It smelled worse than shyke, and perhaps would have seen him vomiting if his stomach had anything to give. The shock of agony emanating from the point of impact was enough to waken what remained of his dazed state however, brought back into reality as violently as being birthed all over again. “You hit…like a little girl.” His jaw line was none the more pleased with the slight maneuvering it took to speak, but the words Gideon managed to spit out seemed to make up for it. His wounded smile carried a defiant smirk along its razor thin edges, crow’s feet contracting around blue eyes that had gained a spark of life. His body lurched as though to laugh, but only a hollow rasp came forth. It was all he needed to let the second shadow know he was being mocked. A gesture that did not sit well for its recipient. “Now now, Harlan. We mustn’t let the mongrel get the better of us.” “Piss on ‘immm. He won’t be so bleedin’ smart when he’s sold off to some blaggard out in the sticks. Likely kill ‘im for sport with tha’ mouth.” “Ah, but he will give us a nice little reward, nonetheless. I think the market tires of our usual fare. Where is it you are from, outsider?” ”Your sister’s bed, you inbred filth.” A piteous sigh fled from the Eypharian‘s lips before the sellsword had time to finish, serpentine arms crossing before him as his long, olive-toned fingers carefully intertwined. “Oh dear. I’d expect as much from a low life. But you really shouldn’t be so cruel. If it were not for me, Harlan might have already split your stomach in two and splayed your intestines about for all to see. A grizzly sight, I assure you. But it does provide a wonderful point for those who refuse to bow.” Gideon could hear Harlan snickering from within his own shadow, a dog pulled at the leash to heel to its paymaster‘s side. He could have almost pitied the man if it weren’t for the ache resonating from his midsection, a favor he’d be remiss about if he did not return in kind should the opportunity present itself. Only time could tell such things.

[Gideon]

Silence filled the cabin aside from the intermittent splash of a wave rumbling past the tar-clasped walls. It was like listening to the tide roll in across the beaches of Eyktol, only with a more ominous pounding reminiscent of thunder. Without even a trace of daylight from a port hole to be seen, it was impossible for Gideon to gauge the time. It could have been the blackest of night for all he knew, Leth’s pock-marked face hanging somewhere up along the velvet-black heavens. But one thing Gideon could be sure of was that they were in fact sailing, a slight pressure pushing him into the back of his chair despite what the coil of rope already achieved in restricting his movements. “I tire of this man, Harlan”, the Eypharian eventually sighed out indifferently, as though his captive were more a play thing than a living, breathing soul. “What say we make our way back on deck and get a bit of fresh hair, hmm? It’s getting rather stuffy in here.” Without waiting for the more diminutive creature’s response, the first shadow only took a few steps until he reached what appeared to be a wall, a single hand stretching down for the latch as he pried it towards him. The iron hinges had seen a fair bit of corrosion from the sea soaked air, whining with a sort of despondency that Gideon felt was painful. A dim gray light swayed lazily through the darkness, revealing for a brief instant the dimmed features of his captors. It was moments like those, after being deprived of a great many things that brought order to one‘s life, that details were remembered with such clarity it would be impossible to forget them for many years to come. The four limbed Eypharian’s features drew sharp contrasting shadows against areas where the light touched, an ounce of fat hard to find anywhere on his body. This lacking characteristic, particularly around his eyes, made them appear bulbously large and oddly equine, not a crow’s foot to be found to distinguish his age from that of a child. It bestowed innocence to a face that was otherwise steeped with an unknotted, perpetual scowl. Lengths of kohl black hair were neatly tied into a tail, where from this distance Gideon could not find a single frayed end that caught a mote of light. Growing from the point of his chin as well, a tightly braided imperialistic beard hung down to mask the thin, yet well defined bulge in his neck. The man could have easily been mistaken for a woman perhaps if it weren’t for the beard and pompous baritone of his voice. Normal Ahnatepian garments had been substituted for traveling clothes which made the rest of his body appear rather androgynous. It begged the question how such a thin man had been tasked with escorting a slave when Gideon wagered he could easily overpower him with his weight alone--something that would quickly be considered and acted upon if the sellsword was ever given the chance. If the other two had not figured it out by this point, their captive held no intentions of staying on for the entire length of their journey. Bonds, odds, and personal interests be damned. Harlan followed behind his master with a certain sort of unhinged glee in his step. Where the Eypharian’s features had been considered comely by even objective standards, looking at this man became difficult to swallow. Boils peppered his face like small geysers waiting to erupt, a few of them drooling a milk white liquid across his sparsely haired skin, evidently having given up the task of dabbing at the sores with a cloth some time ago. From what little Gideon knew of the affliction, Harlan must have felt a rather ungainly amount of pain at all times. It quickly became evident, to the captive’s reasoning at least, why the man relished inflicting it on others so much… His eyes were mere slits, shadowed by mounds of flesh that eclipsed all light from letting one determine their retina’s color. Yet somehow the whites remained as crisp as day, two clear pools surrounding the ever twitching voids of his pupils. His large hooked nose must have obstructed the better part of his inner vision as well, plump mounds of flesh running like a small chain of foothills up to the bridge of his nose. His scalp had been shaved, likely to prevent a case of lice given his unkempt disposition already, but he could have been balding as well. The clothes Harlan wore also appeared in need of either a wash or being tossed out entirely and replaced. They draped about him like a mismatched set of curtains, even over his stocky frame, stains lining nearly each fold with an ambiguity as to their origin. The man obviously liked to get his hands dirty, but why the Eypharian had not seen fit to afford him a decent change of clothes was beyond Gideon’s understanding. Perhaps Harlan took a certain pleasure in being perceived as the most disgusting thing one could lay eyes on in a room. It must have truly been a miserable life, socially speaking. “Wouln’t wancha' peeking 'round, would we?” The voice was Harlan’s, his body wedged between the door to the outside as he bent over a small lantern that had been providing light for the room since the beginning. Gideon had not noticed it simply because the shadows had obstructed the teardrop flame. Now he only was able to watch it dance for a few brief ticks before being blown out by a set of severely chapped lips that clucked with a rasping laugh on their way out. It was all the sellsword could hear before he was consumed by total darkness.

[Gideon]

Gideon felt strangely comfortable in the dark. Nothing more than a shadow numbering among a thrall of other shadows. A novice’s experience had taught him there was more to them than an absence of light. It breathed just as he did, moved when summoned, and occasionally spoke to itself in whispers that could make those who dared to linger for too long maddened by its mutterings. There was a goddess that ruled them, this the mercenary knew, but her name was as elusive to him as her pets were. No one he’d come across spoke candidly about such things. He could only sense she was there, always upon the fringes, watching. The pace of Gideon’s heart slowed to a beat one could keep time with, eyelids shuttering gently as he breathed the stagnant salt-sweet air. Being locked away from the light, it did not make much difference whether ones eyes remained closed or not. This sort of impenetrability would be daunting to most. Countless tales spoke of its danger, all manner of evils calling the realm its home. But like the man currently trapped within its boundaries, both were gravely misunderstood. Such was perhaps why they seemed to get along so well. Wrists stretched as muscles pulled against the tethers that bound his hands together, the hemp scratching an angry rash into the tanned surface of his skin as he strained his limbs against it. Pull as he might, there was very little give to them. Whoever had secured these bonds knew what they were doing, and made Gideon’s chances for escape that much more condemning. Giving up so easily, however, was not a trait the mercenary had ever been known to possess. Opening his eyes and turning his head about the room, Gideon looked for even the smallest pinprick of light, perhaps hidden somewhere between the hull’s dark planks. Anything that would give him a clue as to the dimensions of the room. The chair he was in did not seem to wish to move, an oddity considering he felt at the center of the space encompassing him. Perhaps it had been rigged especially for his journey, or maybe it was just made for men like him; the sort that would go to great lengths to see themselves free. The ship lurched upon its axis once more as a larger wave slithered beneath it, the faint sound of canvas catching a sturdy breeze heard somewhere deep within the distance. Closing his eyes once again, Gideon decided to focus on the sounds he had missed before. A seafaring bird’s cry was like a child’s soft whimper, an endless clicking against the ship’s hull denoting a full crew walking about on the deck. Occasionally he could hear one of their voices, orders shouted or observations made. Their words were swallowed by the shadows that surrounded him, but the inflection in their voices was simple enough to discern. The world outside his small cell was slowly coming to life. At one point Gideon thought he could hear the sound of Harlan laughing, though from this distance it could have been any among the crew who had a layer of salt lodged in his throat. It was a rasping, despicable sort of laugh that poured ice through one’s veins just to hear it. To the silent observer, it made him desirous of putting a permanent end to it. That eventuality could only be achieved if some part of him was free to do it, however. Chest and wrists soundly contained by their fetters, it was Gideon’s feet which remained untested. Here they had wrapped his boots around the ankles, the knots pushing into the tendon that ran up the back of his calf. Impossible to see in the pitched dark, it was only by a translucent sense of touch that he could distinguish anything about the rope itself. Pulling them in opposite directions produced much the same result as his wrists, fibers creaking against exertion but unwilling to relent beyond that. Bringing his feet back together, the mercenary’s lips pursed for a moment as he became absorbed within his own mind. Perhaps he couldn't break the ropes, but if he could loosen them just enough to slip his feet through the hardened leather surrounding them, bare feet would be his to control once again. Preference would have fallen to his hands being freed in this case, but such desperate times would see him thankful for any small victory they could grasp. Twisting and turning slowly at first, the dark made it impossible to even project which direction was best suited for this plan. It was only by agonizing moments of precarious trial and error that any sort of progress was made. If one could even call it that. At times Gideon felt that the cording was constricting his feet even more, pulling him closer to a state of damnation that would never see him free. The knots at the back seemed to be the greater issue, rubbing against the worn leather unkindly with each slight adjustment he made. But where there was a knot, there was also a bit of added space if one could fit it into the appropriate gap. Stopping all movement to reassess the situation, Gideon found that his breathing had become rather feverish in the struggle. The prospect of escaping had obviously thrilled him, but the situation necessitated both a steady heart and collected mind if any sort of coordination was to be achieved. Things would have been much easier perhaps if Kalesse were by his side, he mused. Her voice alone held power over his emotions like a formless pool of water. Easily rippled by the slightest disturbance, but also soothed by the lightest touch she could administer. In the end however, he surmised it was better she was not with him. Worrying about another in situations such as these only complicated things. Orchestrating his breaths to flow smoothly from a small breach in his lips, the captive pulled his legs gingerly together as close as they would come. Then, inching his right foot forward while pulling his left foot back, the single half-inch of space he was blessed with began to turn the rope ever so slightly. Every time he brought his feet back together though, the rope would similarly retreat. The difference, he approximated, was a single step forward with a half-step taken back for each light maneuvering. Progress…