[Black Hole] Duplicity (Inoadar)

[Nemesis]

6th Day of Summer, 514AV

The sky above Ravok was clear; only small wisps of white clouds marred the otherwise infallible azure shades that blanketed the Lake City of Ravok. The weather was not cold, per se, but the occasional cooler gust of wind reminded the citizens that the weather was crisper than normal for this season. Despite this, the temperate lands that Rhysol offered his followers allowed that none were uncomfortable, and the canals and plazas were bustling with life.

In stark contrast to the bright, beautiful façade that Ravok offered to visitors and citizens like was the depths of The Black Hole. Where sunlight caught the black exterior of the visible entrance, warming it gently, little – if any – light streamed down into the many cells that were situated below the city proper. The small shafts which allowed air from above to enter and circulate through the prison cells themselves were far too narrow for any real light to enter. A prisoner might try, but oftimes they would not be able to see the cerulean expanse painted above, or the small stars that covered the night sky.

Though some fresh air entered through the narrow shafts, it would be rare for any prisoner down there to feel the cool winds; the air was stagnant, for the most part. Musky and warm, it clung to the body, making the cells appear to be even more claustrophobic than they already were. Filth and grim coated each of the cell walls, the floor and the bars that kept the prisoners locked in, and the putrid smell penetrated the nostrils and stung the eyes. Rarely cleaned properly, remnants of sweat and blood and vomit and faeces remained in the corners: the legacy of generations worth of prisoners – wrongly or rightly accused – brought down here… many waiting for the worse of fates to come for them.

Because of the poor light, the prisoners’ sight was often limited. Shapes could possibly be made out, and occasionally a small, artificial light source would be left… though most were liable to start to fear the light; light came when the warden, or others came, and when they came, more often than not it meant that one of the prisoners was being led above, invariably to their execution, or below, certainly to experience unimaginable pain at the hands of the worst the Ebonstryfe had to offer. Without sight, the prisoners had to rely on smells and sounds. The Black Hole was never silent. Quiet, yes, but never silent – screams from below, moans or sobs from cells around, or occasionally the sound of laughter from the city above.

Fear strived among the prisoners, of which there was a small population, but a high turnover. Among them was one Nolan Parnell, though other prisoners did not know his name, and he did not know theirs; names were meaningless… the chances of meeting another from the Black Hole in Ravok were impossibly small. It was the unknown; lack of control over what was coming, rather than the physical pain, which drove some from sanity. Most were not even sure of the reasons for their incarceration. They could not plead their case, though they were not given the chance. So, in silence they sat, listening, waiting.

NoteOkay, I’m going to throw a PM to you in a little while so we can discuss some details, but, for now, you’re free to post initial reactions to “Nolan’s” new situation.

[Inoadar]

Inoadar was starting to get tired of telling himself that he would not give in. It was not that he doubted himself in that regard, but it was starting to get boring. He was still pretty certain that the slight changes in ambient light, what little there was, were indicative of passing days. By this reckoning, he had been here for six days, plus the one for the processing after his arrest at the NMSS. For that matter, until he knew what he was accused of, he may very well WANT to give in. This was not from some sniveling intent to grovel for mercy. This was his due to his devotion to Rhysol's agenda, whatever it may be. He wanted to help in this capacity. Pride, of course, made him want to display some toughness beforehand. He had been arrested before. He'd been beaten and questioned. And he'd endured, only to willingly spill the information they sought after they'd decided he knew nothing. He'd done this to make himself noteworthy to the powers that be. To show his capabilities in addition to his devotion. But he had no illusions that the degree of "motivation" would be greatly enhanced here. He was still entertaining the thought that this was a response to that incident. Were they coming back with an "Oh yeah?!...Well then, let's see you endure this!" attitude? So he assumed that the first phase was this isolation approach. Make him crave company, and then make him dread it when it heralded cruelty and torture. In the end, he would dread every moment of the day. He knew these techniques. He'd had no formal interrogation training. But he had his instincts in how to break someone down. How to find what broached their resistance and drive a metaphorical spike through it. His resolve surged anew. 'They will find me no easy mark,' he reassured himself. The words echoed relentlessly in his mind. The days were so long. He wondered if Verin had done as he'd asked and applied his efforts toward ensuring that Burke and Vera maintained control of his shop. 'Has he betrayed me? Has he decided to get his hands on my shop for his own profit?' The thought twisted in his guts. He would not truly mind someone putting his shop to good use, so long as they gave it back with no trouble upon his release. "NO!" he said aloud, shocked at the sudden volume. He cursed himself. His own instincts told him this was the first sign of breakdown. He'd have sneered at his own interrogation target at such an outburst, recognizing it for what it was...'A sign of weakness...' He swore to himself there would be no more like it.

[Nemesis]

Soldiers slowly made their way down the stairs and along the corridor of cells that stretched deep underground the Vitrax and the main city of Ravok. There were three of them in total, and to those being held in The Black Hole, they were nameless, but never forgettable – their job was to transport the prisoner from his cell to one of the chambers below, as it had been their job to escort him down into the cell when he had first arrived. Though no pain came with the arrival of these men, they were feared by those on the wrong side of the bars.

Oftimes, they were the last faces that would be seen by the individuals held captive down here. Ill news followed them, and they were each sombre men, silent as they ambled down the dimly lit corridor and drew to a stop outside one Nolan Parnell’s cell.

Whilst one worked on opening the lock to the cell, another spoke to the prisoner inside. "Up." His voice was deep, and low. With each prisoner holding their breath, the corridor was silent, and the man did not have to raise his voice to be heard. "They’re ready for you." Other prisoners then released the breaths that they had been holding; a sign of relief that they were not the ones being escorted out of their relatively safe enclosures.

Whether the man had stood or not, the Ebonstryfe solder who spoke would signal to the other two to enter the cell and heave the man to his feet and forward. They would shackle his wrists, not that the man had even the smallest chance of escaping; he was probably not malnourished yet, after only a few days of being here, but he would be weaker. There were also many locked doors and soldiers posted along his probable route out of the under-water prison. They also pulled a thick hood roughly over his head, as those who worked down in The Black Hole believed that a disoriented prisoner resulted sometimes in a more and cooperative interrogatee.

One soldier walked in front, and the corridors were wide enough for the other two to sandwich the prisoner, holding him steady. They took their time, over the laborious decent deeper into the lake-based prison – these mere chimes and ticks could feel like bells to the prisoner. If Nolan Parnell tried to speak to them, they did not reply, nor did they talk among themselves, and the silence dragged on, even for the soldiers who had nothing to fear at the end of their walk.

Finally, at the end of more steps and corridors, the first soldier opened a room, and the other two dragged the prisoner inside. They spun him around and sat him down on a cold chair. Metal clinked in the silent room as they wasted no time in grabbing the fetters, which were embedded in the ground, and attaching them to his ankles. The manacles around his wrists were also removed, and replaced with others, which were also attached to the ground and wound up the chair, securing the prisoned in place.

Without a word between them, or to Nolan Parnell, they each stood and left. Once again, the man was left, chained to a chair with the hood still over his head. Chimes ticked by, until he heard the door opening again, and footsteps making their way inside. “Nolan Parnell…” Without warning, the hood was ripped off of his head.

*

[Inoadar]

Inoadar gave no protest or demands for information when the guards collected him. He heard sounds from the adjoining cells as he was escorted past them. Sighs of relief, sneers of malice. No faces could be seen, however, in the inky blackness beyond the bars. Occasionally, a voice twisted by madness and terror would fling a plea through the door of its cell, begging for a trial, or mercy, or even a quick death. Even less frequently, he would hear a prisoner crash against the bars and reach with hateful abandon toward the company, swearing bloody vengeance against them, or some family member or business rival who had betrayed him. The guards paid these prisoners no mind, as far as Inoadar could tell, with his head shrouded. Any voice that had made itself conspicuous eventually sank back into tears and moans by the time they reached a set of steps, the first of several, always leading down. At first, Inoadar simply gave snorts of disdain for these broken wretches, hoping to elicit some sort of agreement from his escort. None was forthcoming. Once, he shouted to one particular plaintiff to accept his fate quietly. For this, he received a baton in the stomach, which itself was answered by chuckling from the darkness beyond a number of cell doors, accompanied by mocking suggestions that he accept his own fate quietly. Even with the humiliation of being made to eat his own words, he had to grin at the satisfaction the unseen prisoner must have enjoyed at his expense. He said no more the rest of the way. They paused at what must have been a door, judging by the classic series of sounds penetrating his hood. The jangling of keys, the click and clack of the lock, the creak of the door, and the subtle change of ambient reverberations from a suddenly expanded space before him. He was shoved in the back and walked forward, spun and shoved into a metal seat, whereupon the shackles he'd been transported in were exchanged for similar ones fixed to the chair. He made no foolish attempt to break free during this transition, and shortly after completing this task, his escort left. He sat alone, telling himself that this entire processional was a classic demoralizing tactic. He had time to repeat this mantra a few dozen times, before he heard the sounds of the guards returning...No...just a single guard. 'No...' he thought further, 'guards would not come in singly, unless one had remained behind.' He had listened carefully and had heard no breathing or swishing of clothing or creaking or leather after his escort had left, though he had no doubt that some means had been employed to keep him under surveillance. He had to grin at the grim beauty of the slow 'ka-lonk, ka-lonk' of the boots as they circled him. Suddenly a voice broke the stillness. "Nolan Parnell..." It was not a request for confirmation. The hood was suddenly stripped from his head, the torchlight sufficient to dazzle his fully dilated pupils as he squinted to see who would be starting the interrogation. For he had no illusions that this was to be anything but that. He did not wish to display defiance, for he was a loyal citizen of his God's city. But neither would he cringe from what he considered to be a test of faith. He would be direct, but courteous. "Forgive me, but why do you call me by that name, when you already know who I really am?"

[Nemesis]

The figure in front of the deceptive poison crafter was one that he had not yet come across. A tall, lean figure, with ghostly white eyes which would invariably show him to be one of the ranks of Druvin in the city. He was the Warden of the Black Hole, a creature of habit who rarely ascended to Ravok proper, and thus was not well known, and sometimes not even recognizable among the regular citizens who went about their menial lives. His voice as soft; the silence was deafening in the depths of Ravok’s prison, so there was no need for the man to raise his voice to be heard. It was also calm and sombre, calmer than one might expect from a man who was likely chimes away from causing the man before him unimaginable agony.

The corners of the Druvin’s lips curled into a smile, a slow motion that was not extended to any other feature; it was mirthless, even in the dim light that much was clear. Behind him, two men also stood, on each side of the door, but compared to the Druvin in the middle, these two men, probably Ebonstryfe soldiers, possibly even the same ones that had brought the prisoner here, were insignificant.

“You have lied once to our city, Mister… Parnell. An act that we might otherwise acknowledge and reward. But that act has left debate among officials as to whether or not you even have claim to the name of Inoadar either.” The Druvin did not introduce himself; either because he deemed it obvious, or he didn’t want to confuse the man chained before him with irrelevant details. But the reasons didn’t matter – the Druvin’s existence and identity was not the one being questioned here.

“As for forgiveness… well it’s not me who has the authority, nor will I grant it. I am here for facts, not to redeem your soul to The Defiler.” The man took a step back, turned and nodded to one of the soldiers, who returned the gesture and quickly darted out of the small cell-like room, whereupon the Druvin closed the door after him. Then, slowly, the tall man turned back to regard his newest prisoner in silence, hands clasped in front of him, shoulders relaxed. It was evident that he had done this many a time, and he knew that having the captive wait in silence as the moments ticked by was no less important than any pain he could inflict.

A few chimes passed and the door opened again to revel the same soldier, returning with a large package in his arms. The Druvin motioned to the corner of the room, in sight of the captive, to have the vast array of implements laid out for him to view with what Ematho was sure would be trepidation. “Records show that there was a Nolan Parnell registered since birth. Clearly you did not steal that identity at your own birth… so we’ll start with a simple question for you: what happened to the original Nolan Parnell?”
*

[Inoadar]

Inoadar felt sure he'd shown no reaction to this figure's white eyes. He'd been expecting some unnerving characteristic present in whomever appeared before him next. He wondered if this man would be disappointed. 'Perhaps I should have gasped' He thought to himself as the man's face warped into a travesty of a smile. 'God's Piss! What I could do with such a face as that!' he went on silently, making an attempt to bolster his resolve. Inoadar was only slightly puzzled when this man began to speak, knowing he had lied far more than only once to the city. But he expected his inquisitor would clarify which lie was at issue. The emphasis he placed on both names, "Parnell" AND "Inoadar", caused him further confusion. He suddenly found that could not recall if he'd ever told Marcus Ahysen that "Inoadar" was only a reassembled portion of his true name. At the time, Marcus had not indicated that his alias was of any concern. This appeared to have changed now. It bothered him that he was unaware of what this questioner's goal might be now. But he resolved to find out. it was his experience that interrogations could be made to work in reverse, though he knew he was up against a true master this time. He steeled himself with the intent to welcome this as a challenge. He began to reorient his focus on his days in the Second Edict, trying to visualize the crowds that awaited his displays of endurance against pain. He had always outdone his competition, outdone his previous marks, outdone exoectations. He would do so now again. 'A challenge, nothing more...' he told himself, 'I will rise to this...and the next...and the next' Memories of the astounded gasps of Nykan onlookers took root in his mind. Many had turned away from his self-inflicted tortures, or blanched in sickened fascination at what he allowed others to do to him...Yes...THAT was the approach...what he allowed others to do...This was a demonstration, this man just an assistant in a display for elders of the order... His focus was diverted, his inquisitor was speaking. Some response to his previous remark, and the use of the word 'forgiveness'. Again, he was stricken with the hesitation as to how much resolve he should show. At what point would this man consider a respectable display of backbone to become a punishable act of belligerency? "I can only ask your...indulgence...then, sir. I was only trying to be courteous. I meant no presumption upon anyone's authority here." The man showed no change in his demeanor as a result of this comment. There was only silence and that hint of a smile. Inoadar knew there would now be a wait. He knew this game. It was to allow the prisoner to let his own imagination populate the stillness with images of his own terrors. He took the opportunity to recall the agonies of self-inflicted burns. He envisioned everything to be red hot, he tried to remember the smell of burning flesh. If he could imagine the worst pain he'd ever felt, then just maybe what was inflicted on him now would carry an element of relief. He'd experienced the effectiveness of this tactic. It was not something just anyone could do, though. it required that initial ability to endure the first wave of pain, and actually maintain a compartment of the mind to imagine something that would make it even worse, and then cling to the fact that this additional element of torment was lacking, as a way of finding respite. He sensed he was going to need every tactic he could think of. Then the surprise...The man asked him about the original 'Nolan Parnell'. He actually found this annoying. Why should they ask him this? He'd fully admitted that he had arrived in Ravok with a subversive attitude. What purpose was there in having him admit it again? He had killed the original Nolan Parnell in the Rising Dawn riot a year ago. The man looked a lot like him and it was a handy fake set of citizenship papers. He had been using them ever since. A sinking feeling began to set in. 'Had this original Nolan Parnell been more than just a citizen?' His thought took a new tack. 'This is a test...they already know the truth. They just want to see how I will approach it. If I lie, I merit death for lying to the Ebonstryfe...or Black Sun....whoever this inquisitor is directly affiliated with...but if I admit to the murder of a citizen...especially one who may have been an agent or something, I merit death for the crime.' Inoadar remembered how a note had been slid under his door after his faked death. A note which had read: "we know the truth." It was hardly conclusive as to which truth it referred to, but he was willing to bet it referred to a combination of several. he opted for that most effective element of evasion, the half-truth. Always better than an outright lie. He looked the man right in his white eyes and said, with complete honesty, "I found him dead. He died during the Rising dawn riots." Neither statement was false. They simply avoided the clarifying detail that he'd "found" him to be dead, because he'd killed him himself...during the Rising Dawn riots. If his inquisitor then asked him if he'd taken Parnell's papers, he would of course say yes...That much could hardly be denied.

[Nemesis]

The white-eyed man watched his prisoner in silence as he waited for an answer and, whilst there was little to be seen on the surface of the man’s face, the Druvin saw a myriad of emotions flicker past. It was clear that Parnell was contemplating his answer, and calculating which would result in the lightest punishment, out of a series of possibly bad ones. The answer came and the Druvin didn’t react; they already knew the answer. It was a test, one that the poison crafter failed.

Ematho turned and nodded to the two soldiers stationed either side of the door, indicating that he wanted the room. The two soldiers, clearly in no hurry to remain, grasped at their weapons and scurried out of the room, closing it behind them. The Druvin turned back to the shackled prisoner on the chair, “Taking another’s papers is… frowned upon,” he said mildly as he began to circle around the chair in the centre of the room, like a predator circling its prey, biding its time.

“Rhysol’s power is not something with which you should trifle, Inoadar. You will not easily succeed in endeavours of duplicity against him or his.” Within each word, the Druvin laced the powers bestowed upon him by The Defiler. A curse of paranoia, as he placed a seed of corruption and chaos into the man’s mind, something which wouldn’t bloom during their session today, but which he could return to nurture in the coming days. “Your mask has been broken, your true identity discovered. You cannot hide.”

Leaning down to the previously dropped off roll of devices, Ematho leaned over and picked up a medium sized rod of metal. Reaching about a foot in length, the metal was cylinder-shaped, except at one of the ends, where it appeared to be distorted, pressed down into an oblong end. This end wasn’t particularly sharp, being just under a pica in width and a little less than an inch in length. The edge was not flat, however, with one edge of the length being slightly longer than the other, resulting in a dull, pointed edge. The Druvin ran one of his fingers over the length of the bar, and rusted metal came away on his skin, which he examined before brushing away.

“Since you admitted to that Commander of the Ebonstryfe who you are, further matters have come into inquiry… your Kelvic, for instance.” Though the prisoner did not know it, Ematho was not overly interested in the content of the responses he received, merely the manner in which the answers were presented. He wanted to watch the man as the pressure increased, and learn more about him, before he found out what he really needed to know.

OOCSorry it took me so long D:
*

[Inoadar]

At the words "further matters", Inoadar looked down and away, as if catching the movement of some insect scuttling across the floor. In truth, he got a bad sense from the words and didn't want his inquisitor to see any reaction he might be unable to prevent. It was a good thing too. He felt his eyes bug with the realization of this problem. But he figured that this interrogator was probably not fooled by his effort. He knew he needed to react immediately if he was going to seem genuine, but in fact, he'd simply forgotten about Ariella. This was increasingly infuriating to him. He wanted to show his ability to take torture, but put him in a traitorous light. There needed to be that perfect balance of cooperation and swagger. "Oh yeah, Ariella. You know I'd forgotten all about her. If you're saying I freed a slave, that's Incorrect! She was never a slave. We saved each others' lives before, and so I let her be my bodyguard." He rolled his eyes as if the whole situation was absurd. "Now if you're going to make an issue of a single, potential slave being allowed to elude that fate, then yeah, sure, I'm guilty." Now he rocked in the chair as he tried to turn angrily, "But I stopped a break out at the KRI several seasons ago! If you don't have details of that, you can blame the petching doctors that are pissed off at me for embarrassing them for their lack of security. So don't go trying to make like I'm some subversive that goes around freeing Kelvic slaves!" He took several deep breaths, cursing himself for letting his anger take control. "Okay, okay, so I bought a collar, and paid for a branding, and then I eventually let her go. She was no good as a bodyguard OR as an assistant. Too distracted all the time." One bit of inspiration struck him just then. It occurred to him that her value as an experimental subject may be the issue here. But he had an angle that he thought might serve to evade that accusation. He recalled seeing that bear Kelvic, Artur, when he'd been out with that Gahinder guy, the hunter. That Kelvic had been neutered. The hunter had said something about how he must have been no good to the KRI now, and that they wouldn't take him back. He needed to think of a physical impairment for Ariella to have had. "And...I didn't think she'd be that valuable anyway. She was blind in one eye." He embellished his story with what he thought was a clever detail. "In fact, one time, she misjudged the food I was handing her and damn near bit my little finger off." He wiggled his left hand in emphasis.

[Nemesis]

The corner of Ematho's mouth twitched as he listened to the poison crafter offer a very verbose response to his question. Whether he was pleased or not at the man' response, however, Inoadar would not be able to tell, so schooled he was in keeping his face impassive. Even when the man tried desperately to insult his intelligence, and the competency of Ravok's militant forces, Ematho betrayed nothing in his expression. If thang were the only transgression, the poison crafter would not be down in the abla k Hole, facing a punishment worse than death. This was merely another test, a control, to see how his prisoner was affected by even more elevated levels of stress.

However, Ematho did raise a brow as he listened to the poison crafter's mention of the near-loss of his smallest finger. It was an irrelevant detail to the story, the Druvin thought, something only the most desperate shared as they tried to make their verbalisations appear more genuine, whether true or not. “Your little finger, you say? The Kelvic clearly not cause you any harm. However...”

The Druvin knocked once on the door, and within ticks, a nameless soldier entered the dank room. Whether he was a familiar face or not was almost impossible to tell; he wasn't the focus. The focus of Inoadar's attention, however, looked down, casting his gaze his assortment of items lying on the floor. Sometimes, like today, he was a fan of using the simplest, crudest techniques to get what he wanted out of his subjects - or victims. There was little extravagance today, no wonderful contraptions that left the mind wondering how they worked, no intricate designs to intrude the person on the receiving end of the pain and torture. Simple was the key today against the poison crafter, and Ematho's was pleased with his decision, given how vocal, hoe eloquent the elusive Inoadar was turning out to be. Deciding, he bent down and reached out to pick up a medium sized hammer. On its own, the weapon would be useless, but combined, it created a practical solution.

Ematho nodded once to the soldier, who looked at the two implements in the Druvin's hands, made an assessment of the order and quickly made his way around the room and wrapped his hand around the prisoner's own. Then, he forced the hand up onto the thin wooden frame of the armrest. There, he spread the fingers wide and made sure that the smallest finger was straight on the wood, before pressing down on the hand firmly in an effort to make sure the poisoner could not move it. “...I don't want to see you spoiled,” the Druvin whispered as he approached, raising the metal rod and hammer.

Wasting little time, Ematho placed the metal rod over the finger, near the base, so that the cool, thin strip was resting on the skin, teasing it gently in anticipation for what was surely going to be a painful experience. Assuming Inoadar was not strong enough to fight off the soldier's iron grasp on his hand, Ematho, in one swift movement, would swung the hammer and bring it down on the higher end of the metal rod, which would then force the other, sharper end into Inoadar's finger. The thud that the severed finger made as it hit the ground would most likely not be heard over the screams of the victim.

“You recently established deceit over your identity negates any tales about your loyalty to the city which you might try to regale us with. Now, I will only ask once...” Ematho nodded to the soldier, who ignored the poisoner's blood seeping onto his own hand in order to move a second finger into position, readying it for another strike. There was no question to come, however, merely a statement, where he could watch Inoadar grapple for a response in an effort to plead the safety of his remaining fingers. “The Kelvic, as a slave, belonged to Ravok as much as it did you... and you let her go.” t

*

[Inoadar]

The situation changed suddenly. Inoadar could feel the intent of his interrogator. It was in the blandness of his voice, the way it offset so perfectly the insistence of the assistant working his fingers apart. He knew what was coming. At the same time that his mind started asking why they were doing this to him, a different section heaped contempt on himself for his craven whining. It either was going to be done and he was going to be dealing with it, or it was a ploy to get him to beg just before the stroke was diverted harmlessly. He strongly suspected there would be no "ploys" here. It angered him that there were really no questions even being asked. All they were doing was confirming details they already knew. His mind followed several paths at once as the wedge-like implement was pressed against his finger. He came full circle back to the belief that this was a test. This triggered the determination to show his willingness to suffer for his chosen god. This, in turn recalled this same belief when it was in devotion to the Celestials of Nyka, through his self-inflicted agonies for The Second Edict. Followed by the loathing that he grew to feel for them in response to their reluctance to fully apply their endurance. None of these diversions kept him from crying out as the finger spun away in a whirl of blood, but it kept his cry from being incoherent. He had focused on his argument with the Nykan elder, letting the anger he felt towards them give him strength in anticipation. "A true devotee SHAAAAAAaaa-OULD BE WILLING..." he panted through his grit teeth several times, "...to suffer maiming as a...proper display of...MARTRYDOM...Elder..." Then he clutched at the words of his father, long engrained in his spirit. "Then their enemies will see that you do not FEAR the stroke, and then it will be THEY that will fear YOU, for they will know they would have been cowed by the pain...and the horror of the disfigurement..." As he spoke, he craned his neck to see the inquisitor from the corner of his eyes, and passion burned in his eyes and voice alike. "...And there is no greater weapon in war than the FEAR you inflict upon your enemies!" The interrogator seemed to move slightly so their eyes could meet as he said this. Inoadar was not sure, but he thought he may have seen...respect...there. "I do not know truly what you want with me, Lord Inquisitor. I deny nothing! I admit everything! When I realized my insolence, I said to the agent then, that I regretted that I was surely beyond redemption." Inoadar was somewhat surprised that the Warden allowed him to continue. He supposed the man was simply letting him seal his fate. "Since you think me deceitful where my devotion to Rhysol is concerned, I will not bore you with more of my claims!I will only say that I was told that my God valued what I brought to his service more than he resented my past foolishness and ignorance. I am his loyal servant now, and HE knows this even if YOU do not!" He knew he was probably going too far, but he could not quite dismiss the feeling that such a display of defiance may be just what this man was looking for. "If this is to have no bearing on your task here, then SO BE IT! When I die screaming, but giving you nothing more, I will be reborn in reward for my faith, and in my next life we will see who sits in this chair!" He spat on the floor and turned back around. "GET ON WITH IT!"