Closed [IHL] Begging the Question (Irriari)

[Orin Fenix]

50 Winter, 514 AV Dorian held the dagger he was sharpening up to the light. He could see his eyes reflected in the sheen of the blade. Testing its edge, he smiled, satisfied. He placed it with its fellows on his desk, straightening it until it lined up with the rest. They advanced in order of size, starting with his concealed belt buckle knife and ending with the one he had just finished with. Like everything else in his classroom, it was methodically and logically placed. It was neat and orderly and he knew exactly where everything was placed. He also had a mental catalogue of everything that could be used as a weapon in the room, starting with the knives under his hands and ending with the curtains on the window. He practiced what he preached and preparation was everything. He started rearming himself carefully. He re-affixed his belt buckle loop, then slipped two knives into his boots. Next came the small of his back and the two knives he kept in easily released sheathes on his forearms. Finally, he slipped his last knife into its place on his right hip. It was the only visible weapon he would carry. He had surprised many an enemy and more than a few allies who thought him easy prey that way. He put his sharpening stone back in its drawer and slid it closed with his boot. Straightening up, he kneaded his back, trying to work out the kinks in his spine. He was spending too many hours at his desk these days and not nearly enough out training or in the field. Unlike many of his compatriots, Dorian didn't feel the need to fill his room with beautiful things. He much preferred to get his pleasures from darker, baser activities. His penchant for torture had started with small animals, moved up to his family, and finally culminated in being noticed by Rhysol. He was recruited into the Ebonstryfe, his cool facade hiding the cruelty beneath. He was incredibly patient, an asset in his business, willing to wait for days, even months to extract the information he needed. Even his peers tended to overlook him, something he actively cultivated. Grabbing a sheaf of reports from his agents in the field as well as several memos from his fellow instructors, Dorian got up and began pacing as he read. His boots clicked on the stone floors as he took ten careful paces, turned, and walked back to where he had started. He found it helped focus his thoughts. The majority of the notes were uneventful. Most were simple updates that situations remained unchanged. The notices from his other teachers were just about certain troublesome students and ways they should be dealt with. None of it was urgent. He marked the few he would need to return to or reply with more than a simple courtesy, and placed the rest in his desk to be sorted through and filed later. That done, Dorian began stretching, trying to loosen up his stiff muscles. His fluid grace came from long hours of practice combined with a natural talent. He had several bells before his presence would be required anywhere and he intended to use them well.

[Irriari]

Irriari found herself waking up earlier and earlier. In the seasons past, the zith woke just before the sun sank into the horizon and stayed awake until the sun came up again. While the habit reminded her of the colony, she could only keep it up for so long. With the exception of the House of Immortal Pleasures, few businesses were open late into the night. The merchants left the market, and the professors of the Institute left to do whatever it was that they did at night. Leah was the earliest riser of the professors she visited. If the zith didn’t arrive at Leah’s door before the sun was in the middle of the sky, she was denied entrance. After a particularly draining lesson with Alena, the zith remembered her lessons with the commander. His interrogation lessons were harsh and his tone reminded her of the cruelest in her colony. That aside, the zith had learned much in the few lessons she had attended under his tutelage. The actually wording of the lessons slipped in and out of her memory as the seasons passed. However, the core principles remained and Irriari took more pride in her features after the commander impressed upon her the importance of using her image to terrify and pressure those she sought to influence. It occurred to her that she had enough time to attend lessons with Leah, Alena, and the commander, provided that none of the instructors expected that she complete a project of her own. The zith began to focus all of her attention on the small chest of drawers in front of her. The wood was warped in some places, and one of the drawers lacked a handle, making it impossible to open. Her vision sharpened, focusing on the dull sheen of the oak handle. Meditating had become easier once she had started incorporating it into her nightly combat drills and early morning shielding exercises. Loud noises still ruined her focus, but it was earlier enough that the humans milling around the docks were relatively quiet. Irriari inhaled, taking in as much air as she could manage. She exhaled slowly, savoring the pinpricks of pain that danced around her chest. The pain was a simple reminder of her continued existence, and she cherished it. After fifteen chimes of methodical breathing, the zith hit the point in her meditation where the world shifted. It was slight, and she had failed to see it for many days. The edges of the world were a tiny bit sharper in places. The glow of the candle on top of her dresser was brighter than it had been a bell ago. In this state, Irriari found it easier to manipulate her djed. She drew it forth from the core of her being by focusing on memories of Sevrai and the adventures they had in the tunnels. The djed waited, and Irriari began building the tasking she intended by layering mesh in her mind until the woven metal was thick enough to block out djed. Next, the zith pulled on the mesh she had envisioned, willing it to be stronger than anything a smith could create. Last, she focused on weaving the mesh into the djed, making them one and the same until the swirling djed was tasked with her will. The process of painting the shield onto her head and shoulders was far simpler, provided she didn’t rush it. Irriari started at the crown of her head and worked her way downward slowly, filling in any gaps that arose from djed that stuck to one side or the other. A chime later, her tenuous focus broke as she tried to extend her shield to her shoulder. Snarling, the zith clawed out at the chest and then punched it, heedless of her own claws digging back into the palm of her hand. It took a few chimes before the zith was calm enough to face the humans. When she was ready, Irriari strapped her quiver to her back and secured it with the two iron buckles the sat low on her torso. The ravosala ride to the Institute was far more calm than the zith felt. Rhysol’s city was far less chaotic in the morning while the majority of humans were still milling around their homes. When she arrived, she double checked with the Headmaster that the commander still occupied the same room on the south side of the building. A short walk left her standing in front of the commander’s door. She knocked lightly, shuddering at the memory of the time she neglected to do so.

[Orin Fenix]

A light knock at the door interrupted Dorian’s stretches. He frowned in annoyance. No one was supposed to come see him for several bells yet. Straightening up from his bent over position, he stalked over to his desk, his eyes narrowed as they looked at the door. Well, he would employ his standard strategy in situations like these. He double-checked all of his weapons in case this was some ploy to catch him off guard. That was highly unlikely but diligence saved lives. Sitting, he picked up the papers he had been looking at earlier and began writing out replies. His writing was as stark as the rest of him, with strict lines and sharp corners. Soon enough he had a fairly large pile of answers. And that was when the chime passed. Dorian always waited a chime before welcoming unexpected visitors. It was a weeding out process. Anyone who did not truly need his time grew impatient and left. Anyone who needed his presence and couldn’t be bothered to wait did not deserve it. Those who waited were rewarded. And in the event someone was looking to snoop around, he would fool him or her into thinking he wasn’t there. Of course, his most valuable possessions were booby-trapped but it never paid to be too careful. And the last visitors he might receive, those more powerful or influential than him would either have him summoned to them or simple announce their presence and enter immediately. All in all, Dorian could see no flaws in his system. And if people thought him foolish and overly vigilant, well, he was still alive and many of his detractors were dead. Crossing back to the front of his desk, he leaned in a way that would look nonchalant, but would allow him to spring into motion easily if this was a threat. He also took the precaution of releasing of his two throwing daggers from their wrist sheathes. He was equally skilled in throwing with both hands, a result of long years of practice, but he preferred using his right. Satisfied he called out, ”Enter.”

[Irriari]

Irriati stood at the door, waiting none too patiently. Her hands ached to be put to use and whether they were ripping at flesh or loosing an arrow from her bow hardly mattered. The wait was characteristic of the commander. In all situations he assumed a position of control. He led both the curriculum and the tone of the conversation and used his substantial power to goad her reacting out of anger. Over the lessons she had attended the zith had learned to bury her anger at his insults. The might of the Ebonstryfe protected the commander, to say nothing about his own combat prowess. He was untouchable. So she waited, idly tracing the lines on the door with her claws. While she doubted there was contact poison on the door, she wouldn’t put it past the commander. His paranoia echoed her own. While she would love to have someone dare to invade her home, it would always be on her terms, preferably with the fool staggering into her room wracked with the pain that came from the most devastating poison she owned. She knew the commander had the same outlook so she tolerated the wait. The lessons were always worth it. When she heard his voice bidding that she enter, she opened the door slowly, hoping to hear the sound of a knife being thrown at her before it landed, if such a thing was to occur. In many ways, the commander had refined her paranoia, pushing it beyond the limits of logic. In order for him to hit her, he would have to be standing on a desk and angling his torso at an extremely uncomfortable angle. Even though the zith knew this, she proceeded with caution. The commander was not a human to take lightly. When she made it inside the room she addressed him briefly, knowing of his distaste for lengthy rhetoric: “I was hoping to continue my lessons. I’ve learned a lot recently, but I can always learn more.”

[Orin Fenix]

Only years of practice kept a sneer from gracing his lip. It was that upstart Zith. What had her name been again? Something like Irritation, which is how he’d thought of her. Ah yes, Irriari, that was it. She’d come to him for lessons about a year ago, but had only come to two before disappearing. Only the fact that he was required to give lessons to anyone the Institute told him to had made him teach her. In his opinion, Zith had no place in the Ebonstryfe or the world in general. They were little more than beasts, only good for taking orders from their human minders. They were tolerated, barely, because they could provide specialized skills. Once all prayed to Rhysol, Dorian hoped he could help wipe their race from Mizahar. Until then, though, he had to put up with indignities like this. Of course, none of these thoughts showed on his face. He was too skilled for that and his features stayed carefully blank. Dorian adjusted his sleeves, using the motion to disguise that he was slipping his dagger back in its holder. Smiling slightly at Irriari to put her off guard, Dorian said, ”Have a drink with me.” Pushing off from the desk, he walked to the corner of his room where he kept his liquor cabinet. Grabbing two glasses, he rubbed a ring on his left index finger, depositing the small dose of dark reaving powder he kept stored there in one of the goblets. He closed the cache again, masking the sound from even superhuman hearing by sliding the noisy glass wine bottle off the shelf. This was a very special wine, one that hid the taste and smell of even the most pungent of poisons. He had it specially made. Coming back to the desk, he poured two generous portions and walked over to her to give her the doctored glass. He took a quick sip of his to reassure her that the wine itself hadn’t been tampered with, if she was even thinking about such things. Crossing his left arm across his body, he held his cup loosely in his left hand. He raised one eyebrow at the Zith, then remarked in a quiet voice. ”At least you remembered to announce your presence. I’m frankly shocked.” He then dropped his voice into a deeper register and added just a hint of a growl to it. ”However, last time you not only made a poor showing in both judgment and intelligence, you also disappeared after two lessons. Honestly, I had hoped I was rid of you. Give me one good reason why you think I should take you on as my pupil again.” Dorian tapped his foot allowing just a hint of his annoyance to show. Maybe he could scare her off but he doubted it. Zith were too dumb to feel fear at the proper times.

[Irriari]

Entering the room forced the zith to be on edge. One was never comfortable around the commander. Her unease manifested itself physically as she rocked on the balls of her clawed feet. While it wouldn’t aid her too much if she needed to escape, the repetitive motion calmed her enough to accept a glass of wine from the commander. As always, his expression was unreadable. His face was a mask that betrayed nothing of his thoughts or emotions. On the other hand, every movement he made and word he uttered was dripping with calculated venom and deliberate intent. It posed an image without flaws: I am in control, and if this is what I’m like with restraint and precision, imagine how I could tear you apart if I let my control slip for a but a moment. Irriari didn’t have to tell the commander that he was the most terrifying human she had ever met. Her deferential manner told the story far better than anything she could have said. Any other person that dared goad her and laugh at her wings would have faced her wrath, regardless of the consequences. With the commander, Irriari didn’t even have to bite the insults back as they never even had a chance to surface. Sometimes, survival took precedence over the reckless jubilation of one’s nature. Irriari accepted the wine gratefully and took a deep drink, hoping it would calm her enough to focus on the lesson. The wine was the strongest she had ever tasted. Somehow the humans had manage to cram the essence of a million grapes into a single glass. Even fresh blood was not so strong. Grimacing slightly, she held onto the glass in a poor imitation of the human style she had seen at bars. His statement surprised her. Most of the professors at the Institute made their dislike of zith quite apparent, but they all taught nonetheless. It was the will of Rhysol to have an army that was well versed in subjects beyond combat. Thinking for a moment, the zith realized she had no answer other than one that wouldn’t particularly please the commander. Trying it anyways, she replied: “I like interrogation. I might not be your best student, but I’m petching good at it. If you won’t teach me, I can always learn on my own.” OOCFeel free to assume that shortly after that statement, Irr succumbs to the effect of the poison. You didn’t list it so I didn’t want to take any liberties with how she was to respond. If she passes out or anything like that, you can move things along as you wish, if that’s what you want to do.

[Orin Fenix]

Dorian smiled a thin smile at Irriari. He set his goblet down on his desk, and walked towards her. ”Well, you’ve convinced me. I’ll take you back on a provisional basis.” He walked towards her and held out his hands. [b]”Here’s the first lesson, and this one’s for free. It’s more of a life lesson, actually.” Dorian grabbed her and pulled her to the center of the room, which stood over a grate. The floor sloped towards it so any liquid would drain from the room. Leaving her there he moved towards the rack he stored on the left side of the room. [b]”Never accept food or drink from someone you’re unsure of. You never know what they might put in it.” Grunting slightly he picked up the rack and placed it in directly over the drain. ”On the flip side, it’s a highly effective tactic for subduing an unsuspicious victim.” Dorian laughed, feeling a genuine glee at her helplessness. ”Don’t worry, it’s not permanent. You’ll feel weak for a while but it will go away. It’ll last just long enough for a hands on demonstration of interrogation.” With that, Dorian dumped Irriari on the rack. He lashed her wrists to the ropes tied to the top of the table and shackled her ankles for good measure. He thought the drug would last long enough for him to finish what he had planned, but in his business it was better to be safe rather than sorry. He checked his knots and his locks until he was satisfied that they would hold against anything the Zith could throw against them. Dorian next went to his fire, stoking it up. Once he was happy with the blaze, he placed a poker and a brand in there to heat up. Next, he went to his desk and pulled out a roll of cloth. Placing it on the surface of the desk, he unrolled it, revealing many shining bits of metal. That cloth held the tools of his trade. He stared lovingly at each and every one of them. He kept them in pristine condition and maintaining them was one of the best parts of his day. However, the sight of them was often enough to frighten his prisoners into spilling whatever secrets they might have had. So, holding them up where Irriari could see them, he began cleaning them of nonexistent bits of dirt. He sharpened the blades and tested the strength of the cords. He made each motion clear and distinct, moving slowly so Irriari would have plenty of time to process each item and come up with various horrible potential uses for each one. Usually what someone came up with was much worse than the actual purpose. But Dorian was happy to string Irriari along. All in all, his preparations took about a bell. It probably felt much longer to Irriari. Time stretched when you were helpless, as Dorian knew from his own training. Through all this time, Dorain was quiet, saying nothing to Irriari. He also carefully made it appear as if he were ignoring her. This would either enrage her or frighten her, however she normally reacted to feeling beneath notice. Either would work. Turning to her with a simple knife in his hand, Dorian maintained a smooth impassiveness with his features. It would scare her more than anything else he could do. He then asked, ”Tell me everything you remember from what I taught you last year,” angling his dagger so it caught the light and flashed in her eyes.

[Irriari]

Irriari breathed a small sigh of relief. Convincing the commander to take her back as a student was a task that had gnawed at her for weeks. She knew it would be far from easy, but he must have seen something in her to accept so quickly. Pride swelled through her chest at his acceptance. The surge of emotion spread from her core to her limbs and extremities. The realization hit her quickly enough, but the implications of it took much longer to grasp.The sunburst of activity that she felt was not linked to any emotion. She was weakening. He had poisoned the wine and her body was quickly succumbing to the punishing effects at an alarmingly fast rate. She ignored the commander, focusing inward, willing that her strength would push back against the molasses that was overtaking every vein and artery. No strength came, and the blood sight was too far out of reach to be of any use to her. Irriari’s fur covered arms were the first to weaken to the point of utter uselessness, laying limp against her body as the commander dragged her to the center of the room. A tingling rushed through her legs, overpowering all of her senses with that of a million needles stabbing her simultaneously. The zith gritted her teeth and bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She would not scream, not to this. A few seconds later her legs went numb and were as useless as her deadened arms. Her torso was next, and the poison took her chest mercilessly. The posion was a gracious guest, and left a leaden weight settled right above her sternum as a gift. While she knew that the weight was only an imagined thing, Irriari found herself trying to struggle, begging her body to move the left or right to save her from the pressing weight. Heedless of her plea, her body lay still against the rack that the commander had positioned her on. Her wings ached and by the time they went numb, Irriari whimpered. The sound was quiet but unmistakable. It was the manifestation of the creeping paranoia that was coursing through her bones. The paranoia left nothing to her, turning every fear and injury from the past into an array of images that flashed by on repeat. For the first time in many seasons, the zith was utterly helpless. The voices of the Elders echoed in her head with such volume that she closed her eyes tightly until her eyebrows met the line at the top of her eyelid. It didn’t help at all. How many times had they lectured and screamed about trusting humans? You’ll regret it if you ever do, they had said. Those petching scum will flay you alive just to see how your wings connect to your back. When they get bored of that, they’ll rip off your wings and hang them by the mantle. They’ll tell all their friends how they bravely lured you in and slew you. . The message in the stories had been evident. There was no bravery involved in ripping something so stupid apart. The circle of life was did not have time to help the weak and inept. The coppery taste of her blood coated her tongue until she swallowed it down. The commander would draw enough blood without her needing to help him. Feebly, she tried moving again, caring not that she was strapped to the rack. Her pride demanded that she beat the poison’s effects, just once. Her body remained still as the corpse of a dead doe. Irriari occasionally looked at the implements that the commander was touching. She knew that it was show, but it was still effective. Some of the hooks lacked any curve at all. What was the commander to do with a hook that resembled a v? The paranoia surged in her, feeding off the image of the commander with his various implements. Sweat dripped from the nape of her neck, trailing down a portion of her spine before hitting the floor. Her thoughts weren’t impaired, but she found it more difficult to construct a coherent thought free of the paranoia than it was to move. Her initial attempts were stunning failures, quickly sabotaged by a flash of knife or hammer in her peripheral vision. It took her a half bell before she could calm the hellscape inside of her mind. Her thoughts were not of Sevrai or the colony. Nor was she focused on anything in Ravok or the lands beyond it. Deep within herself, Irriari focused on survival. There would be trauma, blood, and pain. The commander might even break her bones. These thoughts were cold and collected, facts that simply were. There was no contesting her situation or flying to safety. Instead, she had to focus on simply making it to the next day. Holding onto this thought, guarding it deep within her soul, the zith began to speak. “I remember that my image is important. If you tell me to give you information and I don’t give it to you, you can threaten to kill me.” Her voice shook as she continued speaking. Gone was the arrogant zith pride that she had brandished as a weapon only a bell and a half before. “I have to know myself.” The zith closed her eyes again, knowing that looking at the commander’s cruel expression wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. She knew that the number of lessons she had forgotten outweighed the ones she remembered by no small amount. It was unimportant. Men like the commander were similar to her, in some regards. They would toy with their prey regardless of the answer the prey gave as it was the only way to satisfy the beast raged inside of them. Break a finger of some pathetic vagrant on the street, the beast subsides for a week. But if one was to terrify someone to their breaking point and beyond, the thrill would last a season.

[Orin Fenix]

Dorian smiled grimly. He’d expected Irriari to forget everything. The fact that she could remember anything in that bestial mind of hers was a shock. Perhaps he’d been underestimating the potential of the Zith race. Or perhaps she was as much a freak to her own people as she was to him. Either way, her intelligence was something he’d have to watch. Not that she’d ever equal a human, but maybe there was some hope she could be useful to the cause before she was discarded or killed. He’d been planning on crippling or potentially killing her to teach her the proper place for a Zith, but he might have to revise his plans. After all, if he handled this right, she could make a valuable tool. Simply answering his questions wasn’t enough. She had to answer his questions to his satisfaction. In this particular round, she had failed. It was time to see how well pain could jog her memory. Dorian walked away from the rack as he flipped his dagger and caught it by the hilt. That was a trick he’d practiced many times. It looked powerful and gave him an aura of complete control. However, now it was time for an object lesson, and he spun without warning and drove his knife into her left shoulder and twisted. It was the mirror of the wound he had given her last year. Leaning forward, Doran whispered in Irriari’s ear, just a hint of breath escaping him. ”Something to remember me by dear.” Leaving his blade in her shoulder, Dorain stalked over to the fire and picked up one of his brands. Coming back to Irriari, he stood with the brand directly in her line of vision. Caressing it, Dorian grinned at his captive. ”Are you sure that’s all you can remember? Do you want me to give you a hint?” This was turning out to be more fun than Dorian had expected.

[Irriari]

The commander walked away. Like everything else in this scenario, it was an act. He meant to catch her off guard. Irriari closed her eyes and relied on her hearing alone. Something was being thrown and then caught. More than likely it was one of his damnable daggers that he had such a love for. The zith had never been so stupid as to call the commander out for using such an ineffective and small weapon but the urge struck her now. Typical humans. They banded together for survival and allowed the weakest among their kind to train with weapons that would be of no consequence during a real fight. A dagger had nothing on a sword. She bit her tongue again, agitating the wound until the nerves protested. His boots echoed on the stone floor as he returned to the rack. Her eyes snapped open at this, straining towards him, anxious to see what he had planned. Her peripheral vision provided some information, but not nearly enough. Gritting her teeth against the ever pervasive helplessness of her situation, she focused on breathing steadily. The blade sunk into her flesh before she had a chance to comprehend what was happening. She didn’t scream. A muffled sound of pain escaped her lips through her gritted teeth. As he twisted the noise became louder and higher pitched in response. The paranoia returned, filling her with the image of that carving knife sinking itself into her flesh over and over. In her mind’s eye she saw blood seeping lazily out of a myriad of shallow wounds that had been given a bell to clot. In contrast, deeper lacerations on her chest, wings, and thighs bled freely, dying her fur crimson before running off her body and down the rack. The thought of her wings being maimed cause the zith to close her eyes again in a desperate attempt to fend off the growing panic. As she slowly regained control, the commander began speaking again, questioning her. More than anything, she wanted to spit in his face and tell him that the lessons he taught were useless. She wanted to tie him to the rack that confined her and mirror every wound she was to receive. Her claws ached to rend his flesh and watch the same paranoia play across his features as he realized that there was no escape. But it wouldn’t come to pass so she focused on pushing the pain out of her mind so that she could answer the question without having her voice betray her. “I don’t remember anything else. Don’t you think I would have told you everything I remembered?” She bit her tongue again, knowing that if she ventured any further into questioning him she would regret it.