[OOC] Vignette.
It's dark in the ship's under-deck area. Dark and oddly damp, moist, sticky. There is no ventilation here, no port holes or even so much as a square cut into the hull to let in fresh air. Ista's humidity collects densely in the close space and drips from the gloomy rafters overhead.
An oily green light opens suddenly on a small, old table, a modest collection of glows held in the cup of a tattered basket. There is nothing new or fine here and if everything isn't dirty then at least most everything is. In short, it is the ideal place to keep someone whom you do not want to find comfort. To scare them, to beat their will down into the musty old floorboards.
There is a man in a chair next to the table. Small details become clearer about his situation: he is bound with his wrists to the arms of the chair; he is gagged by a dirty old sock; he is staring with wide eyes. His wide forehead is sweaty and greasy, there is a flop of hair matted to it. He's very likely a good looking man under different circumstances, when he's clean and he isn't terrified.
He also isn't alone.
Once again he tries to communicate with his captor, his muffled pleas stopping very short of actual coherent syllables.
He receives only silence in response, the other man staring down at another table, upon which a number of shiny instruments has been spread. His back is to the man in the chair.
Eventually he selects a cruel looking scalpel-like tool and holds it delicately in his hand. He turns finally, and it's K'aus's black eyes that bore into the man in the chair. He approaches him, picking up a stool along the way and dragging it over so he can sit there with the device plainly visible. He speaks.
"If you had answered my questions before we wouldn't be here. I just want you to know that."
More muffled pleas. K'aus lifts his eyebrows and remains as coldly unreachable as he has been. There is a partition between himself and things like sympathy, pity.
"It's really too late for that. This," he holds up the scalpel, "is where we're at now."
A quiet, sobbing moan.
The dragonrider very calmly pushes the stool away and stands to lean over the other man. The impossibly sharp edge of the blade gleams once in the sick light.
-----
An hour later the door leading into the room opens.
The man who took K'aus's money walks down the short stairs to enter through it. He looks at the chair, at the man in it, at his face; he looks at the messy sheet covering the floor. He turns away from it all to vomit quietly in the corner.
-----
The next day a man is delivered to the people who will care. He is horribly disfigured and missing two fingers.
Those show up the day after, to two more recipients.
-----
In his room in the Lucky Seven, K'aus sits in a chair and calmly turns the page in his book.
An oily green light opens suddenly on a small, old table, a modest collection of glows held in the cup of a tattered basket. There is nothing new or fine here and if everything isn't dirty then at least most everything is. In short, it is the ideal place to keep someone whom you do not want to find comfort. To scare them, to beat their will down into the musty old floorboards.
There is a man in a chair next to the table. Small details become clearer about his situation: he is bound with his wrists to the arms of the chair; he is gagged by a dirty old sock; he is staring with wide eyes. His wide forehead is sweaty and greasy, there is a flop of hair matted to it. He's very likely a good looking man under different circumstances, when he's clean and he isn't terrified.
He also isn't alone.
Once again he tries to communicate with his captor, his muffled pleas stopping very short of actual coherent syllables.
He receives only silence in response, the other man staring down at another table, upon which a number of shiny instruments has been spread. His back is to the man in the chair.
Eventually he selects a cruel looking scalpel-like tool and holds it delicately in his hand. He turns finally, and it's K'aus's black eyes that bore into the man in the chair. He approaches him, picking up a stool along the way and dragging it over so he can sit there with the device plainly visible. He speaks.
"If you had answered my questions before we wouldn't be here. I just want you to know that."
More muffled pleas. K'aus lifts his eyebrows and remains as coldly unreachable as he has been. There is a partition between himself and things like sympathy, pity.
"It's really too late for that. This," he holds up the scalpel, "is where we're at now."
A quiet, sobbing moan.
The dragonrider very calmly pushes the stool away and stands to lean over the other man. The impossibly sharp edge of the blade gleams once in the sick light.
-----
An hour later the door leading into the room opens.
The man who took K'aus's money walks down the short stairs to enter through it. He looks at the chair, at the man in it, at his face; he looks at the messy sheet covering the floor. He turns away from it all to vomit quietly in the corner.
-----
The next day a man is delivered to the people who will care. He is horribly disfigured and missing two fingers.
Those show up the day after, to two more recipients.
-----
In his room in the Lucky Seven, K'aus sits in a chair and calmly turns the page in his book.