Well, well. Look what we got here. (Wrenmae)

[Phoenix]

Timestamp: 61st day of Summer, 511 AVPermission given by Levi. Where: Unknown, Sunberth It was dark. Not the comfortable kind of dark that practically embraced you as you slept, but the cold, distant darkness of a cold, foreign place. It was impossible to tell if it was night or day, there was no evidence of sun or moonlight. Just darkness. The air was stale and heavy, hinting towards the fact that whatever the contents of the room, there was no window. The space itself was hard to judge. As mentioned before, the darkness was complete. But it was also quiet. There were no human voices, no scurrying of tiny rodent feet. There was no sound of water, air, or the normal settling of old buildings. It was absolutely quiet. This is how Wrenmae would wake, in this silent, darkened prison. It was impossible to tell how long it had been since he was attacked on the road or how far he had been taken. While these things were troubling, the most pressing question was most assuredly why?

[Wrenmae]

Only the swimming half-remembered verses of confusion came readily to his mind. They bumped and twisted across the landscape of his consciousness and evaporated into nothingness, the wispy vapor trails of comments lost in absolute darkness. He was alone, here, absolutely in the dark...metaphorically and literally. Movement brought sharp pain to his head, like moving it through heavy water and breathing agony. He was still, then, and for a time he simply lay and absorbed his surroundings.

There were the familiar aspects of reality, things that grounded his mind in limited understanding, the floor was the floor, cool to the touch and invitingly solid. He could feel no walls, could hear no sounds, and so in his unfortunate position he remained. The familiar was no longer part of his visible or sensing spectrum. Instead dark things fluttered at the edges of his vision, shadows gaining movement briefly before collapsing back into each other.

Silence, he knew only silence.

Wrenmae moved, starting with his fingers, bending them as he moaned into the nothingness. HIs sound was surprisingly loud, almost deafening in the otherwise stillness and it shocked him to silence again.

Djed, Djed, he could use his Djed.

Pulling Djed into his eyes, he ignored the agony to tap into latent magic and force transformation to his eyes. They shaped, twisted, became as a cat's...and with a better vision, he tried to take in his surroundings.

But not even a cat could see in pitch blackness...and so he was denied even this temporary attempt at clarity.

"H-Hello?" He pleaded with the darkness, willing it to step forward and speak, "Where am I?"

[Phoenix]

All of Wrenmae's yelling amounted to futile attempts to be heard. There was no one listening, or, if there was, they had been ordered to ignore. Food began to punctuate the long stretch of unknown hours. There was no rhyme or reason to when the small metal tray was slid underneath the door. The food, however, was consistently cold and consistently horrible. Just barely enough to keep him alive, Wrenmae would be forced to choke down as much of the disgusting slop that he could. Only once a day, or as best as he could figure, he got a small cup of water. Other than that, he was alone. So very alone. But what was the point of it all? Clearly they weren't trying to kill him, since they, whoever they were, provided him with food. The scratch on the back of his head needed cleaning, but in the darkness it was hard to tell what state the wound was in. After a long expanse of silence, Wrenmae would hear voices. The guards, as they brought his food, began to talk. Not too him, but about him. "It won't work." "Sure it will." "He'll break before it happens." "Two coins says no." Bits and pieces of conversation was all he could get, snippets of what was going on. And only silence met his inquiries.

[Wrenmae]

It was only in the darkness that he began to hatch a plan. Nothingness had been granted him, but to achieve the true Void, to achieve true obedience, they should have killed him. Now, hidden here in the shadows, he was nothing but mind. Body was void, a useless appendage that had no weight nor value. Only by darkness did he move in certain patterns, at last, pushing himself up and down over the stone ground, sitting up again and again, practicing movements reserved for soldiers and those training for battle. Instead, Wrenmae did it religiously.

He practiced, doing little else with his body than becoming. The wound did not kill him, infection did not set in. Sickness would not touch him and so the wound did not fester. Alone, he forgot the sound of his own voice. There was only nothing, and sometimes the guards. Their voices were honey, the ambrosia of starving ears and sometimes he found himself awake for hours, against the door and the slot in the wall, waiting for it to open.

To assure him there was life on the other side.

But wonder seemed to cease as his soul began to decay. Everything he had set within himself...his hopes and dreams, the wild abandon of the storyteller leaving home. Alric, Seidaku, Kit, Sable...all names and faces that were lost to him. He could have been blind, should have been. It excused the nothing around him, gave him the impression that he simply couldn't percieve the world around him, but that it had to exist.

Words.

Words.

Worlds and words.

Break? Break? Who would break? Not him. The hush of Shroud against his mind told him patience, to wait. Weaver said differently, the bouncing personality of an egomaniac, it was Weaver who first suggested he fish for answers.

As always, Egyptus remained silent, pushed aside by the stronger personalities.

Behind the door he waited, hands drawn over knees hugged against his chest. It gave him a safe feeling, one of physical comfort and ability. He could feel himself and thus he existed. Even as his hair grew long and washed over his eyes, even if it didn't matter...he was him.

The next time a guard shoved food through the slot, Wrenmae spoke...the first time in what seemed like ages and though his voice croaked, it was thick with all the Djed he could pull from within himself, forcing it through the slot to the ears of the guards with every bit of his soul.

Something cracked inside his mind, a warning, but he poured more than he should anyways, more and more.

"Tell me...where am I, why am I here?"

Only those two questions

He felt if he had those...he could figure out the rest.

[Phoenix]

Whether Wrenmae's efforts paid off, or it was just pure luck, his next meal came with a surprise. A loaf of warm bread and quick footsteps as whomever left the gift beat a hasty retreat. As usual, the tray was slid through a slot in the door and left with a clatter on the floor. No words were exchanged, no reassurance given that Wrenmae's pleas had been heard. But this one gesture of kindness after weeks of absolute solidarity and complete isolation was like a bright, blinding light in the darkness. Though no words accompanied the food, the heat radiating from the bread, a fire compared to the dank chill of the dungeon, clearly spoke to the young man. Hold on, it seemed to say, just a little bit longer. If Wrenmae could ascertain this silent message was a different story. While his body, though malnourished, was healing, it was now his mental state that was in danger. In his attempt to contact the guards that stoutly ignored him, something had broken in his mind. His thoughts reeled in circles, unable to pull away from the memories that flooded his mind over and over again. Every bad thing that happened to the poor man was replayed in excruciating detail. By now, Wrenmae would have realized that he was alone in his captivity. Was he in a dungeon, or was his the only cell? All that was known was the fact that there was a long hallway leading to his door; he could count the number of steps the guard took when they brought his food, noting that at least three different people had been assigned the task during his stay. Only a few days had passed since the loaf of bread had been slipped by when there was the heavy clomping of boots down the corridor. Because the meals had been staggered, and with no ray of sun or moonlight to tip Wrenmae off to the time of day, it was impossible to guess the reason behind the appearance of the guards. The loud clanging of metal on metal shattered the silence that hung over the cell, covering the walls like fine tapestries. A key was found and inserted into the lock, the door protesting loudly as it was forced open. Though barely noticable to those who spent their days out in the sunlight, a window down the corridor somewhere spilled weak rays of light onto the floor. To Wrenmae, it was blinding. Rough hands grabbed the young man where he lay, a set under each armpit as they heaved him upright before dragging him from the cell. Neither of the men gave Wrenmae a chance to gather his feet beneath him, even if he could support his own weight, and promptly carted him down the corridor, up a flight of stairs and down another stretch of dark, cold stone hallway. None of them talked nor answered any of Wrenmae's questions. The hallway ended in a set of doorways on either side of the hall. The guards flung open the door on the left and shoved the weak man between them inside. Landing with a none-too-gentle thud, Wren's head cracked sharply against something solid and cold only a few feet into the room. Closer inspection revealed iron bars completely enclosing him as well as over his head and under his feet. Once again, the door was slammed and locked behind him. Wrenmae was once again trapped, and this time, caged. He wasn't alone for long, though. It couldn't have been more than two bells later before another door opened. It wasn't the one behind him, but across the room instead. The creaking of hinges was accompanied by the painful brightness of a torch, carried by a man whose face Wrenmae couldn't make out as his eyes immediately began to water. It was a long while before the light would stop burning, his eyes used to the complete darkness after the weeks upon weeks of isolation. When Wrenmae did manage to open them again, he would find the man lounging in a wooden chair only feet from the cage, watching with a smirk curling his lips. "Well, hello there." OOCFeel free to make the guy look however you want, as it doesn't really matter. Other than the man, the only other thing Wrenmae will be able to see is the torture devices that fill the room. Feel free to do what you will with that information

[Wrenmae]

By the time the guards had wrested him from that wretched oblivion, Wrenmae was already dead. His heart still beat, his mind still worked in feverish, laconic pendulums, but he did not. He made no effort as they took him beneath both arms and dragged him from his squalor. He left behind him nothing, traveling into nothing once more. To put in these passages what came from his head during that time would be meaningless, he thought nothing, saw nothing, understood nothing. His mind was the vapid silence of the Void around him. Had he been studying the magic actively, no doubt the quiet would have filled him with more understanding than he could have ever possibly wrought. Indeed, at first he had...giving himself freely to the Void to bring darkness into darkness. Whether his attempts were successful, whether he brought nothing to coexist with nothing...these were irrelevant questions. Now...there was only... Light. It was, strangely enough, the unfiltered sunlight that brought his mind back from the brink. he remembered the way it had once illuminated his body, how it had stolen fatigue from his limbs and laced his skin with warmth. Once...once he was human. Once he was a person. Sudden life was pooled into his limbs and he struggled, unexpectedly breaking the guards' grip on him...if only a moment. Even as the light stabbed his eyes, he grasped at it, reached for it, clamored and fell short of it. They grabbed him again, silent even in their curses as they pulled him up stairs and across the cold stone ground. He was hurled into another cell, irrelevant from the others, but as the boy tried to grasp his surroundings, shapes cut into focus, blearily and painfully...but across the wall and hooked to the stone, they made themselves known. Whips, split at the end like a horse's tail and each strand sporting a dangling hook...small handed tools of such variance in shape and size that they may have been assembled to make torture on any race imaginable. Ropes dangled from the ceiling, knotted and caked with dried blood. A thousand more oddments of suffering preceded and followed them, all quiet in their threat...needing no more than their presence to make the purpose known. Behind them, a man sat on a chair, a man who spoke to Wrenmae...spoke to him with words, words directed at him HIM, him. Broad shouldered, a black beard wisped off his chin and dangled in a curling shape, much like smoke. One eye was gone to him, only a faint white sheen where a pupil might have been. The other, in comparison, was dark, abyss dark, and sporting malignant intent. His hair was wild, but only in such a way to enhance his tanned skin, almost a part of the darkness itself. His garb was not impressive, a worn wool cloak around his body, arms bulging at the material. He sat...no, sprawled and smiled. He had spoken. Wrenmae tried to do the same, grasping for the words he had long since lost the ability to use. It came as a croak, a pathetic croak. "Why?"

[Phoenix]

"Why, dear boy! Because you are a threat!" A chuckle laced the words, as if the question that tumbled from Wrenmae's battered lips was the most foolish thing he could have possibly asked. The laughter didn't quite reach the strangers eyes- or, eye, to be more appropriate. Though one was black and sightless, it seemed almost as if eyes followed every weak movement Wrenmae made. Impossible. "Do you really think we would allow such a... thing," he spat the word, as if the very thought of having the word on his tongue disgusted him, "to continue unrestrained?" Another dark, reedy chuckle. "And they said you were bright." The chair creaked as the man shifted, his long legs spreading to either side as he dropped the faux casualness of his lounge, elbows moving to rest on his knees, hands dangling between them as he leaned towards the cage that held Wren. There was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze now, cold and direct as he waited for the boy's full attention. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

[Wrenmae]

Too many unanswered questions. They fell upon his mind like birds, pecking away at his defenses. Thing? Him? Dangerous? Bright? He'd never seen the man before, never once had entertained such a foul creature. But he spoke as though he knew Wrenmae, SAW him...for what he was. The thought was terrifying. Around him, shadows coalesced and dived together, thickening and lengthening till there were only two individuals...two and a shadow, Wrenmae's shadow, falling like a Shroud over his feet. He was trapped, completely and utterly. This was not a situation he was accustomed to and after all the fear and terror of the before, the days left to rot in the darkness, the shipwreck...the wolves...it all seemed like a continuous curse. His mind simply couldn't handle it. There was a snapping sound, like dry twigs, or perhaps a mind, shattering from within Wrenmae's consciousness. Darkness swirled there, collected, and became one. Although Wrenmae fell to the ground of the cage, twitching with the hints of words playing at his mouth, he spoke not a syllable, convulsed, and then grew still. But only for a moment. Shroud rose next, morphing darkening his eyes, shifting the color to an inky slick, the unyielding tenacity of the Void. His face twisted, his poise was different, Shroud sat back against the cage and leveled his gaze at his captor, scowling. "You're well informed," he spat, bracing himself against the bars and giving them a short kick, "Resourceful too...but I'm not here to answer to your authority, I was captured and now you have me." Crossing his arms, the storyteller matched the gaze as best he could, his heart still pounding in his chest. "My life is some worth to you, otherwise I would not be here. Tell me, how long have I been captive here? What do you know about me?" He pressed his face against the bars, teeth braced, grimacing. "Who are you?"

[Phoenix]

Shrouds demand was met only with a smug smile, the weight of the chair shifting to the two back legs, wood creaking as the front ones lifted off the ground, that cold eye never leaving the young man's face. Dirty, lank strands of hair fell across the captors face as he tilted his head, listening to the dying echo of the cage's bars, which had clanged loudly against Shrouds anger and frustration. "Are you satisfied?" The tone was a mocking one, as if talking to a small child. "Did that make you feel better?" The chair fell back to all fours with a sharp snap. "No? Well, did it get you free?" And he rose, long limbs unfolding until he towered over the caged man, topping him by both head and shoulders. It took only a couple long strides to close the gap between the two men, Shroud's captor pressing right up against the bars, forcing him to have to tilt his head back to meet gazes. "It didn't get you free. You're at my mercy, aren't you?" He wasn't looking for actual answers to his questions, throwing them instead at his prisoner like poisoned barbs meant to sting and worry at his already breaking mind. Both men were pressed against the metal, neither wanting to back down, though one had an obvious advantage. "You enter our city..." It was a low snarl, deep in his chest, the malice no longer contained to his voice. Those cold eyes gleamed with an intense fervor, the insane glitter that lingered there far more terrifying than what his hungry grin revealed. Shroud's captor clearly cared not for his appearance, so one would assume that there would be no exception to the filth. But those dirty, crusted and cracked lips peeled back to reveal brilliantly white teeth... All filed to sharp points. "..and you leave corruption and disease in your wake, like a giant slug." A hand darted, grasping Shroud and yanking him to slam against the bars of his cage. Fingers fumbled around for a moment, fighting the young man as he most assuredly struggled, until he found what he was looking for. "Aha!" A shout of triumph, as Vayt's mark was revealed. "Scum." He spat shoving Shroud away, turning to return back to his chair now that he had his conformation. He was pleased with himself. They had been right, and the boy deserved everything he had gotten...and what was to come. Not that they would have felt much guilt if he had turned out to be innocent. "You deserve what you're going to get." And he snapped his fingers once. Cliche, perhaps, but the door through which he originally entered moaned as it open. Something shuffled in the long shadows there, veiled completely by the darkness. There was a muffled clank of metal, as if a bag of steel had just been dropped to the floor, before the shuffling retreated and the door creaked closed. "We need to oil those hinges." The conversational tone was a complete turn around from the menace that had laced his words only moments before, his words almost drowned out by the renewed clanking of whatever was in the shadows. It was only a moment or two before the captor was back in view, a bulky roll of cloth tucked in the crook of one arm. "You, son, are about to find out why the call me Break." The chair was given a kick as he walked by, sending it skidding across the floor to bang against the cage bars. The cloth was placed upon the chairs seat and unrolled slowly. Torture implements laid themselves out before Shroud, pointy, blunt, sharp, or prickly, even some for which the young man wouldn't have a name. But all gruesome and caked with a dark, red stain. The wicked smile returned, pearly whites flashing up at Shroud as Break stooped and undid the locks on the cage door. It swung easily open as the last restraint was removed. The torturer stepped back, beckoning Shroud to follow him. "Come here, boy.. C'mon..." The smile was maniacal, the eyes insane. Break could tell that his prisoner was close to the edge; Wrenmae had the distinct air about him of someone about to be broken. He had used his magic earlier, trying to force answers from the man with his hypnotism. Break had expected it, of course. They always used magic towards the end, as a last resort. And they expected to be tortured with magic in return. They always underestimated real, physical pain.

[Wrenmae]

Shroud remained back in the cage, quiet, crouched. Morphing had touched his features, his hair and eyes shifting darker in accordance with this new identity. Breaker grinned at him, bear crawling across his features like a sea of spider legs, all writhing and twitching, feeling and tasting. It was an apt comparison. This was the first time Shroud had been awake. He was cold, colder than Wrenmae and although his heart thumped painfully in his chest, his mind began working on the possibility of escape. The cage door was open, Breaker preparing chains on the other end of the room, hung up along the wall, besides those myriads of torture instruments. Res seeped into his hands, coating his skin in the thick Djed made manifest. Breaker took a pole off the wall, set with jagged edges on an almost clamp-like end. A Mancatcher, rare except when used among the Zith. Shroud waited, patiently, bringing more and more of the stuff into his hands, preparing. The big man shoved the mancatcher toward the cage, but Shroud was already moving out of it, using the moment it was lanced forward to roll out of the opening. The pole slid above him, some of the jagged spikes catching and tearing the skin along his back, but Shroud was up, twisting and moving, shoving both hands forward and unleashing twin blasts of air that sent Breaker staggering back against the wall. Rather than remain and watch his opponent, Shroud immediately went to the door, tugged the handle. Locked. Breaker was on him before he turned around. The bigger man easily crushed the mage against the door, laughing as he smacked Shroud's head against the wood once, then twice, letting the youth stumble to the ground, woozy. Taking down the chains, the man cuffed Shroud around the wrists and ankles, hoisting him up on the wall beside the tools of torture with barely any strain. Shroud struggled, to the best of his ability, but found his vision unfocused and head swimming. He had tried, and now he was trapped. He couldn't even focus on his captor anymore...Vayt damn it...this was a poor way to go.