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Fable : Fall of the Guild	By : Samson Category: +A through F > Fable Views: 8222 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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Endure.
Fable : Fall of the Guild

Part X - "...It Was To Save A Country"

By: Jesse Racine AKA Samson

Original Date Written: February 23, 2013

Darrah’s black, wrathful eyes went to the door as the keys slid into the locks, making the mechanisms yield, the door moments away from allowing passage. Darrah, unlike Bianca, had already been questioned and stripped out of her clothing, given mere scraps to clothe herself with. She was wearing a makeshift skirt apparently made out of a strip of material torn from a brown burlap sack, the two ends of the horizontal strip barely stitched together, threatening to tear apart at any moment. She also had on a vest-like garment, made of a thin, itchy material, causing rashes to irritate into life all over her torso. The light yellow garment had numerous dried blood stains on it, as well as rips and tears here and there, Darrah having felt grim when she first wondered what had happened to the vest’s previous possessor. Like Bianca, Darrah had been enduring a single form of torture for the entire night, kept awake by the pain.
She had been suffering, there was no denying that, but the suffering had not had the effect the League had wanted. Instead of becoming afraid, instead of becoming compliant, the suffering had made her angry, indignant. The League inquisitors had made no progress, whatsoever. Regardless of what they had threatened her with, no matter what rewards they offered, she would either respond with sarcasm, or outright hostility. It hadn’t been easy for the inquisitors to first trap Darrah on their torture device, she had struggled upon seeing what they had in store for her. The apparatus, nicknamed the "Iron Horse" by League inquisitors, was formed entirely out of metal. Four rectangular legs supported a triangular body close to two meters above the floor, with a faithful reconstruction of a horse’s head sticking from one side of the triangular body. Darrah had been forced to sit down over the construct’s body, straddling it over it’s back.
Chains had been extended from the walls and attached to shackles around her wrists, spreading her arms out by her sides, preventing her from freeing herself from the torture. With no choice but to endure, she had had to suffer through hours of having the horse’s pointed spine dig directly into her uncovered groin, Darrah not even left with her underwear for a merciful shred of protection. Like Bianca, Darrah had, at first, had a somewhat easy time ignoring the torture. But as the hours went by, the philtre wore off, and Darrah came into agony as she realized just how much her own body weight had been used against her. Under her own weight, she was crushing and jamming herself against the horse’s spine, almost mutilating her own vulva. The thought of trying to shake her hips forwards to try and slide off of the Iron Horse was inconceivable, to Darrah. She couldn’t help but worry that attempting to do so would actually make the contraption’s spine slice into her, massacring her genitals.
She had long lost feeling in her legs, Darrah unsure of her own ability to walk, anymore. Her whole body covered in a cold sweat, Darrah watched as the door to her containment cell swung inwards, shadows standing in the doorway, blinding light hitting them from behind. Darrah screwed her eyes shut tight as some sort of opening appeared up above her head, light pouring in. Person after person walked into her chamber, coming through the doorway two at a time. They were all League members, dressed in their dark uniforms, unusual firearms in their hands. Darrah stared, a little surprised. They each held a firearm as long as her arm, reminding her of a report Miller had made about Benedict’s bandits, ages before. The weapons were similar to the ones some of the bandits had had, back at Benedict’s fortress, but these were clearly of a higher quality. Their firearms were black and shone in the light, suggesting they had been polished.
The flintlock mechanism of each firearm glinted and sparkled, as if made of silver instead of iron or steel. As each pair of League members came into the room, they split apart, one heading to the left, the other to the right. Ten people had walked into the room by the time the flow ended, five on either side, watching her with cold, unfeeling eyes. "She’s securely restrained." One of them said, near the open doorway. One last figure slowly walked in, raising their hands, threading their fingers together before pushing outwards, cracking their knuckles. "You’ve got a visitor." One League member smugly said, over to Darrah’s right. Darrah stared at the eleventh figure as she coldly said "Whoever they are, they can go to hell." Smiling a little, she tauntingly added "In my current position, I’m in no shape to entertain guests." The eleventh figure dashed over, and before Darrah could get a good look at them, they pulled an arm back and swung it over, bashing a hammer blow into the side of her face.
Darrah’s head swung to the side, the power of the strike surprising her, her entire torso almost twisting over to her right. A man with a deep, angry voice grabbed Darrah over the top of her head, painfully taking a fistful of her dirty blonde hair. "Darrah, Alexander’s youngest heir...I should kill you where you are." The voice spat out, cold and bitter. Darrah tried to pull her head away from his grip, but he held her steady, not relinquishing his hold on her hair. The side of her face stung, the area where his fist had met her already feeling as if it was swelling. "Why don’t you?" She curtly responded. The man pulled Darrah’s head up straight, letting her see him in the light, his eyes on her’s.
His appearance wasn’t anything like Darrah had been expecting, Darrah put off balance by his face, in particular. His skin was light and fair, like her own. He looked to be around the same age as her father, likely somewhere in his early forties. He was a tall man, taller than her, and was toned with chiselled and wiry muscles. His hair was rusty red, dark and crimson like dried blood. His hair had been cut short until it was mere stubble upon his head. He lacked facial hair entirely, his lips twisted into a snarl. He wore a sort of mask over more than half of his face, covering the right side of his face from his jaw up to his forehead. The mask covered a third of his mouth as well as most of his chin, covering his nose entirely along with his whole forehead. Aside from a narrow hole for his right eye, the mask didn’t have a single passage for air to flow through, hiding his skin completely. The mask appeared to be made primarily out of obsidian, the black, warped metal contrasting starkly against his light skin.
Designed around the perimeter of the mask like a fanciful border, silver had been laid, thin and surprisingly attractive. The mask was kept in place by four thick leather straps, wrapping around his head. Each pair went above and below both of his ears, but the pair close to the uncovered side of his face had to go around his eye, as well. It was instantly apparent why, exactly, he wore a mask over only part of his face; even with the mask covering what must have been the most extensively damaged area, thin scars were visible over the other half of his face, as well as his throat. Darrah couldn’t recognize what kind of injury could’ve caused the scars. They were shaped like lines, as if a blade were responsible, but the skin immediately around the lines looked pitted and twisted, as if fire or a gruesome infection had been involved. His eyes were both coloured like amber, but by the way his left eye moved while his right stayed still, she realized that the right eye must’ve been glass.
There was a mad hatred burning in his one intact eye, uncontrollable, unappeasable. It was clear to Darrah that, when he looked upon her, all he could see was an enemy that had to be slaughtered, a relentless fury that called him to destroy. He was dressed in a surprisingly luxurious garment, wearing a light red sleeveless shirt made of an expensive and soft fabric. Around his neck, he wore a pendant, the cord black with the pendant, itself, shaped in the likeness of a bear’s face. He wore a pair of pauldrons, detached from any armour, connected to each other over his collar bones and shoulder blades via numerous black leather cords. The pauldrons looked very much like typical craftsmanship from the Old Kingdom did, made of gold and iron-like metals, inlaid with precious jewels and gemstones. Like weapons from the Old Kingdom, the pauldrons had numerous indecipherable runes and markings engraved into them, placed wherever the jewels weren’t.
Attached to the backs of the pauldrons was a cape-like garment, hanging down behind him until it reached the backs of his thighs. It was coloured dark purple, nearly black, with the trimming on the edges coloured gold. He had a ring on his right thumb, made of black metal, perhaps even obsidian. A single diamond had been placed over the ring, large and brilliantly cut, though hardly obtrusive. His pants were dark gray in colour, several tones away from true black. His boots were thick and black, laced up tight, obsidian lining the front and back of each, protecting his toes and heels. Leroy’s snarl persisted as he icily said "Oh, rest assured, Darrah. You will die, today. And then, your father will receive steady visits by a dozen different couriers, each bringing a dozen pieces from your body...Each one will have a little message for him, reminding him that your family were fools, not to assist the Anti-Hero League." Darrah smiled a little, tauntingly saying "Impressive words, for a man that’s got me chained over a metal hunk."
Leroy immediately swung his other fist over, punching Darrah as hard as he could over the other side of her face, holding her by her hair to keep her still. Darrah made no sound of pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Leroy’s voice was calm as he gave her head a shake, gripping her hair a little tighter. "Yes, your groin must be in agony, by now. The Iron Horse...Sometimes I can’t help but shake my head at the inventions Hopkins comes up with. He may be an old pervert, but genital torture, more often than not, proves quite effective." Darrah tried to spit in Leroy’s face, but he reacted blindingly quickly. He seemed to realize what she was trying to do the very moment she moved, before she even had a chance to aim her lips at him. He whirled to the side as she spat, letting her saliva hit the floor. He pulled back an arm, grunting a little as he rocketed his fist into the center of her face. Darrah’s head recoiled backwards, pain exploding in her nose.
He had very nearly broken her nose in that single hit, suffering flaring through Darrah’s face. Darrah, breathing a bit quick from pain, glared openly at Leroy. "If you’re trying to torture me for answers, it doesn’t matter what questions you have. I won’t tell you anything." She angrily said. Leroy actually smiled a little. "I love it when people say that." He commented, with amusement. Raising his eyebrows, he knowingly said "Everyone always says they’ll never break, and they always do. The human body isn’t meant to endure pain for extended periods of time. Even Heroes reach a point where they simply can’t take it, anymore." Darrah narrowed her eyes, accusingly saying "So, what? I’ve already been questioned, something I’m sure you’re aware of. You’ve kept me sitting on this thing for hours, and if this couldn’t break me, I doubt you getting your kicks by knocking me around is going to do the trick." Leroy chuckled darkly, then hit her again. Punching her across the side of her face, his ring bit into her cheek, opening up a cut. Blood started to trickle down her cheek, collecting at her jaw before running down her throat. "I’m not really after answers, Darrah. They’d be nice, but I somehow doubt you could tell us anything we don’t already know." Darrah stared hard at Leroy, loudly saying "Like what?!" Leroy just smiled more at her, his smile turning a little sadistic.
Ignoring her question, he said "Some of my colleagues have their doubts about physical torture, and they’re not entirely wrong. If you hurt someone long enough, they’ll end up trying to feed you false information..." Leroy abruptly swung another fist over, hitting Darrah over her nose again, succeeding in breaking it. Pain blew through Darrah’s face, exploding in her head as blood quickly ran down her nostrils, flowing over her lips and chin. Leroy continued, still calm and concise, as if he hadn’t even noticed what he had done to her. "They’ll try to tell you whatever they think you want to hear, just to try and stop the torture. While that’s true, that risk can be completely avoided by ensuring that your victim truly knows something you don’t...You have to be certain that they have valuable information." Darrah glared at Leroy, her mouth hanging open a little as she breathed heavily, avoiding breathing through her damaged nose.
He swung another fist over, hitting her over the left side of her forehead, his ring cutting into her and opening up a gash. Darrah grit her teeth, shutting her eyes tight with pain. Leroy vigorously shook his hand for a moment, staring at Darrah mercilessly. His smile started to die away as he said "Sometimes you have to torture for hours before you get what you want. Days, with the particularly stubborn ones. And usually, the only way to make sure you’ve gotten all you can is to continue the treatment until they perish." Leroy grunted again as he swung a fist up into Darrah’s chin, knocking her head back with a particularly savage blow. Darrah’s vision started to darken, forcing her to blink several times to keep herself awake. The strike on her chin had almost rendered her unconscious, and more than anything, Darrah didn’t want to leave herself defenceless to the League inquisitors. Leroy’s tone went icy, again, as he said "But you won’t have to worry about that. I want you dead, today, so I can send off body parts to that damnable estate your pathetic family ekes an existence out of, as soon as possible."
Darrah started to chuckle, a little breathlessly. "Well, that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, Kreel." She sarcastically retorted. Leroy grunted again, swinging another fist over, hitting Darrah over the side of her face, near her left temple. Again, his ring bit into her, opening up a cut that quickly ran blood into her eye. "I can see where you get your insolent tongue. Alexander spoke the same way." Leroy knowingly said. Darrah, again, tried asking Leroy her question. "What do you know about my family?" Leroy stared into her eyes, almost chuckling as he said "I know that your father isn’t at his estate, right now...And I know most of his army is with him. Divide and conquer, as they say." Darrah’s eyes widened. Leroy raised his arm and looked at his ring, his brow furrowing. With annoyance, he said "Look at this. You got blood all over my ring. Do you have any idea how much this thing cost me?" Darrah’s face started to go dark with wrath.
She mustered up what energy she had left and started to pull on her chains, struggling against them as hard as she could, trying to snap the metal rings. Leroy raised an eyebrow, smiling widely with amusement, saying "You’re a Hero of Strength, but even Heroes have limits. Try all you want, you won’t break those chains." Darrah stopped fighting, panting a little from her exertions. Hanging her head down a little, she stared up at Leroy. She was quiet for a moment before she, a little softly, said "...I have to pee. Get me off this damn thing, or else I’m gonna end up going all over it." Leroy let out a laugh, and a few of the other League members in the room started to snicker, breaking the silence they’ve held since entering the chamber. Leroy looked at Darrah with a bit of a grin as he said "I couldn’t care less. Piss yourself, you’re not even getting a bucket." Darrah’s expression turned outraged, her eyes wide, a disgusted scowl growing on her face. "You can’t be serious!" She loudly said.
A few more of the League members started to snicker. Leroy didn’t respond, simply looking at Darrah with detached mirth. Darrah’s face started to go red with rage, the cold sweat on her body getting worse. Her jaw went tight for a few seconds as Darrah’s anger swelled. Finally, she began to shout, yelling out "You ugly son of a bitch, get me a damn bucket before I break out of these chains and tear that stupid little mask from your face!" Leroy kicked out a leg, a loud metallic clunk echoing in the room as he kicked the horse beneath it’s torso. Darrah’s face went blank, her whole body lurching as the horse jerked beneath her. Her expression went horrified as her body reacted without her control, her eyes screwing tight. The sudden jolt of pain that went through her groin killed her delicate control over herself just long enough for her to begin urinating, Darrah unable to fight the reaction once it had gotten underway.
Darrah hung her head down a little, refusing to look at anyone, feeling humiliated as several of the League members began to laugh to themselves. She urinated for close to a full minute, before her flow finally came to a stop. The insides of her thighs were drenched, her urine having ran down the sloped sides of the Iron Horse’s body, letting it trickle down both of her legs. "I’m sure that was a relief." Leroy mocked. Tears began to glimmer in Darrah’s eyes. Quietly, still refusing to look at him, she muttered out "Fuck you." Leroy smiled, a few final chuckles coming from the League members on either side of her. "I think we’re done, here." Leroy stated, staring at Darrah with a bit of a grin for another moment before he turned for the doorway. Darrah listened as they all began to depart, the hatch in the ceiling sealing, leaving her in darkness. She refused to sob, she refused to even let her tears run down her cheeks. She found anger in the humiliation, hate, a burning need for vengeance. She watched Leroy walk out of the room, followed by his League cronies. Leroy stared back at her up until the door to her chamber was slammed shut, leaving Darrah locked in the shadows, once more.
Gibbons and Marilyn sat in a lounge-like room inside the Arena, smiling to themselves, cups of celebratory ale placed before each of them on a small circular table. The two had managed to keep the capture of their friends fairly quiet, and so far, it seemed like very few people were aware of the group’s upcoming joint execution. The guards that had escorted the group to their cells were too busy with their own assignments to think of viewing the upcoming collective execution, and the inquisitors that had visited each of them were likely too focused on the party being thrown for Leroy and Vincent to care much about viewing an execution. Still, the two had found themselves getting pats on the back from strangers in the League, worryingly suggesting that knowledge of their friends’ capture was more widespread than they realized. To keep up appearances, they had helped prepare for the party, and once their two targets had come to the Arena, they had retired to a lounge room, drinking ale by themselves, trying not to draw much attention.
The room was, like the rest of the Arena, made almost entirely of sandstone, furnished with a few tables and chairs. Casks had already been brought out from storage, placed in varying spots around the room, ready in case more alcohol were needed for the celebration. There were two wooden doors leading into the room, one being the exit to the hallway beyond, and the other leading to a large storage area filled with barrels and casks of various foods and drinks. The room was lit up with numerous candles and sconces set into the walls, putting the room under a toasty glow. When the two had first come to the room, there had been a few other League members, laughing and having a good time. Eventually, though, they had left, perhaps to join the majority of the others in the main halls and lobby of the Arena. Marilyn looked down at her metal tankard as she, a little quietly, said "I don’t even know why we’re having a party. Weren’t Kreel and Hopkins just here to review our clerical records?"
Gibbons brought his tankard up to his lips, holding it there for a few seconds as he said "I know. At the very least, you’d think it’d be a quiet celebration. Maybe some food and drinks for a feast, but not all this beer and booze." He took a swig from his tankard, quietly bringing it back down to the table. Marilyn’s eyebrows flickered upwards, a little smile growing on her lips. "The execution’s still not for another hour or two. If people keep getting drunk, it might actually work in our favour." Gibbons smiled a little. Whether or not their plan succeeded, they were in their final hours as Avery House and Sarah Valentine. Their League identities would be destroyed at their friends’ group execution, something they both deeply looked forward to. By habit, they instinctively dreaded the idea, but the notion of being freed from the behavioural shackles that being part of the League had called for was too elating for them to ignore.
Normally, they would never have spoken of their personal plans at the Arena, not even in hushed tones, but now, they couldn’t help but let their guards down a little. They were so close, so painfully close, that they were almost tempted to join the rest of their false comrades in their revelry. There was only one last part of their plan left for them to do, before the executions took place. They needed to get into the armoury and secure themselves several more firearms, in order to make the final part of their plan that much easier to accomplish. Otherwise, the duo were risking having no way of defending themselves against a group of armed League members. Marilyn had just raised her tankard to her lips when another League member suddenly walked into the room, Gibbons noticing her over Marilyn’s shoulder. He didn’t recognize her, but she smiled at the two in a friendly manner, walking over to a nearby table. "Hey, guys. How ‘bout this party, huh?" She sweetly said.
She couldn’t have been older than twenty-three, the young woman still in the prime of her life. She had long blonde hair, tied into a ponytail over the back of her head. Her League coat was left undone, showing off the dark blue shirt she wore beneath. Gibbons almost instantly noticed that the woman didn’t appear to be armed, there was no firearm to be seen, holstered at her hip. It wasn’t unheard of for a League member to go around without their firearm when they weren’t on a mission, but it still made Gibbons feel an inkling of suspicion. Marilyn swallowed her mouthful of ale, then looked over at the woman. She was smiling to herself as she grabbed a tankard, pouring herself a cupful from a nearby cask. "Yeah, it’s surprising. I wasn’t expecting something like this, when I heard Leroy and Vincent were coming." Marilyn pleasantly said. The woman chuckled. "Oh, me either. I thought we were just going to have a quiet little party...More talking and work than drinking and laughing. People can be so tense, around here. I know that what we do involves people dying, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop living." She readily responded, taking her tankard and walking over towards their table.
Gibbons raised an eyebrow a little, smiling a little. "That’s good, I’ll have to remember that. Sure, we put people to death, but that doesn’t mean we can’t party." The woman’s smile weakened, and eventually disappeared. Coming to a stop beside their table, she stood still for a few seconds. Her eyes went downwards for a moment before she met Gibbons’ again, and said "I don’t like thinking about it, like that. I don’t like to think of them as people...Makes it harder. I just think of them as enemies, and that it’s us or them. Makes it easier to sleep, at night." Gibbons raised his eyebrows and calmly said "Whatever helps. I don’t have any illusions about what we’re doing." The woman slowly took a seat, getting on one side of the table, Gibbons and Marilyn sitting across from one another. Marilyn continued Gibbons’ thought, saying "We’re two groups on opposite sides of a war. We’re killing them because we disagree with them...Sometimes it’s easy, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes you wonder if it’s worth ending their lives over an opinion...Sometimes you just get angry, and do it." The woman’s brow furrowed a little before she lightly shook her head. Taking a swig from her tankard, she said "No, I don’t think it’s like that, at all." Gibbons and Marilyn glanced at each other, then looked back to the woman. "Tell us what you think." Gibbons urged.
The woman sighed a little before she said "I see us as...Cows. Hear me out. I see us as cows, because we’re not doing anything to hurt anyone...We weren’t ever a problem. We just did our thing, ate some grass, and lived our lives. Heroes, though, are balverines. They snarl, they rampage, they destroy everything they touch, they spread their filth and stink wherever they go. They rip us apart, they rip each other apart, and whatever they do, we get caught in the middle of it. They think it’s all a big joke, they think it’s hilarious how much they can ruin our lives...They think they’re untouchable. The League exists to get revenge, to show them that they’re not gods. The lives of normal people everywhere would be a lot safer, and a lot more calm, if Heroes were eliminated, entirely." Marilyn’s smile remained unchanged as she said "Well, you present a very convincing argument." Gibbons kept his smile on his face, raising his eyebrows for a second, bringing his tankard to his lips.
"Let’s not talk about that kind of crap, it’s too grim for a party." The woman’s face lit up, again, as she eagerly said "Right, right. I saw you guys bringing in a bunch of Heroes, looked like an impressive haul. Heard one of them was even the Witch of Darkwood." Gibbons casually took another gulp from his tankard before he asked "How did you hear about that?" The woman leaned her head to the side a little, warmly saying "Like I said, I watched you two bring them in. Plus, I’m friends with one of the guys that questioned them, so I know about their execution, today. Surprised more people aren’t talking about it, but I guess the party has people busy. I’ll be free, though. I’m looking forward to it." Marilyn smiled and jokingly said "We’re still waiting for Leroy to congratulate us." The woman smiled widely with amusement, obviously holding back laughter as she said "Good luck with that. I haven’t really seen him around the party, so I don’t think he’s mingling with the others, much. I would imagine he’s busy looking over our records, and’ll be at it for his whole visit here. If he hears about your work and wants to congratulate you, I figure it won’t be until tomorrow, at least."
"That’s too bad. We were kind of hoping for a bonus, or something." Gibbons said, grinning a little greedily. Marilyn matched his grin, avarice sparkling in her eyes. The woman smiled politely and said "Well, you never know. The execution’s only in an hour or two, right?" Gibbons gave a nod, his expression relaxed, a little smile on his face, his eyes only partly open. "Pretty soon, all four of ‘em will be outta here. And then the party can really start. For us, anyway." Gibbons said, gesturing towards Marilyn. The woman nodded, taking a gulp from her tankard. Before anyone could say anything, Gibbons raised his eyebrows and started to stand up from his chair, saying "Hey, you know, there was this weird cask in the back room...I’m not sure what was in it. I was thinking of bringing it out for the party, but I think it was the only one, so I’m not sure if we’re saving it for something." Marilyn seamlessly went along with his story, beginning to stand up as well, saying "Could you take a look, with us? I don’t think the cask even had a marking to show what was in it."
The woman arched her eyebrows, resting her tankard down over the table, starting to rise, as well. "Um, sure. Maybe if we bust out some really special stuff, Leroy and Vincent will actually join all of us for a drink." Smiling guiltily, she said "I’m actually starting to feel bad, drinking like this when I should be working. This was all for Leroy and Vincent...If they don’t join us, it just feels like we’re slacking off." Gibbons and Marilyn both chuckled. "Yeah, I know what you mean. We deserve a break, though. The League’s a constant commitment." Gibbons said, heading for the nearby wooden door. As he opened it up and stepped into the cool, dim room, he yawned a little, bringing a hand over his mouth. The woman came in behind him, Marilyn not far behind her. "I suppose...It just feels so weird, to be drinking in here. I mean, when I hear laughter in the halls...It just feels really unusual." She said. Marilyn smiled a little, her eyes keenly watching the woman.
Most of the light was coming into the room through the doorway, and when Marilyn quietly swung it shut, the room went almost pitch-black. The woman didn’t have time to react, Gibbons acting in a flash. Spinning around, he pulled a small dagger from inside his coat. Grabbing the woman by her shoulders, he yanked her to the side, slamming a leg into the fronts of her own. The woman gasped as she was bowled over, slamming down against the hard floor, barely keeping herself from banging her face directly against the floor during the impact. "Wh-What?" The woman simply mumbled, confused and in shock. Gibbons dropped down over her, slamming his knees into her spine, fully ramming her body down against the floor. The woman wheezed as the air was torn from her lungs, desperately struggling, trying to force him off of her. Gibbons mercilessly grabbed her ponytail, yanking it back, pulling her head up and dangerously exposing her throat.
The woman’s struggling immediately ceased when he brought the blade to her throat. "Wait, please!" She begged. Gibbons couldn’t see the tears run into her eyes as she desperately said "I h-have a son...Please, he’s only two years old. He doesn’t have anyone else." Quietly, trying not to sob, she said "Please, don’t kill me...He’ll be an orphan, nobody might even find him in time. I don’t care about myself, but please, don’t do that to my son...H-He needs his mother." She started to shake and tremble, choking up as tears ran down her face. Gibbons stared down at the woman, his hand lingering over her throat. He didn’t necessarily believe her story, but the emotion she was showing was compelling. It could’ve just been her fear of death utilized in a clever manner, but there was no way to be sure, either way. Marilyn kept her silence, simply watching the two, able to clearly make them out in the shadows. "Sarah? What do you think?" Gibbons asked, turning his head a little, his eyes still on the woman’s head. Marilyn raised her eyebrows for a second, quietly saying "Well, we can’t just walk away, now. And it’s not like we can hide her in here, someone might discover her before we’re gone. We don’t even have rope to tie and gag her, with." The woman started to audibly weep. "Why are you doing this?..." She tearfully asked. Gibbons ignored her. Unfeelingly, he said "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Ah, well. One less League member."
The woman’s eyes went wide. She tried to scream, but Gibbons dragged the blade across her throat after only a split-second, cutting her off. The woman went tense and rigid, blood gushing from her throat, running profusely down to the floor. Gibbons had only gotten a few droplets on his hand, thanks to his speedy slash, but he felt the need to give the woman another cut, to try and ensure she bled to death in a timely fashion. That, unfortunately, drenched his hand in crimson, but he didn’t mind. He kept the woman pressed against the floor, feeling her twitch, her struggling getting weaker with each passing moment. When she went limp a minute later, he finally rose to his feet. "Well, that takes care of that. She won’t be telling anyone about the executions, coming up." Gibbons wiped his knife off on her coat, then slipped it back into his own. "Think her story was true?" Marilyn asked. Gibbons sighed and walked over to a nearby cask.
Turning the spigot, he put his hand underneath, letting the flow of ale run over his hand and wash off the blood. "No idea. I kind of doubt it, but even if it wasn’t, who cares? Someone will find her body, get the kid, and put them in a good home." "Yeah, maybe." Marilyn simply said. Staring at the slain body on the floor, she was quiet for a moment before she said "This is mind-bogglingly risky. When she gets found, this whole place will go on lockdown. There’ll be a mad panic. Leroy and Vincent will high-tail it out of here faster than you can say "Heroes aren’t a threat"." Gibbons smiled to himself. "That’s why we’re hiding her. Throw her behind some barrels, then put a barrel or two over the blood puddle. She’ll be hidden long enough that it won’t change things." Marilyn sighed a little. Bending over, she grabbed the body by her hips, grunting as she lifted her up. They could both hear droplets of blood hitting the floor as Marilyn hefted the corpse over several barrels.
Bringing her to the left side of the room, a couple dozen feet from the doorway, she dropped her down in the middle of a barrel cluster, getting her far out of sight. Gibbons, having cleansed his hand of blood at the cost of making it reek of alcohol, picked up a barrel and brought it down over the majority of the woman’s blood puddle, using a second to cover the rest. For all intents and purposes, nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Aside from a few shuffled barrels, there was no evidence that anything unusual had taken place in the storage room. Marilyn pulled open the door, letting light radiate back into the room. Subtly sticking her head out through the doorway, she glanced around, seeing that nobody else had come to visit the lounge. "We’re good." She whispered, over her shoulder. Stepping outside, Gibbons let out a sniff, walking out close behind her. Shutting the door behind himself, glancing at the doorway on the other side of the room, he quietly said "Alright, we might as well head for our next stop."
Marilyn turned to him, about to respond when she hesitated. She stared at him in surprise, her mouth hanging open a crack, her words never forming. He looked at her in confusion, raising an eyebrow. "Something wrong?" He asked. Marilyn blinked, beginning to look him up and down. "Avery, you’re looking...A little pale." Gibbons only looked at her with greater puzzlement. "Really?" He asked. Marilyn nodded. She wasn’t mistaken; Gibbons’ skin looked unusually pallid, looking oddly ashen. Gibbons’ eyes darted around as realization dawned on him. Smiling almost nervously, he quietly said "Maybe she wasn’t lying." He let out a little chuckle, raising a hand, running his fingers through his hair. "It’ll be okay. It doesn’t matter." He simply said, a moment later. Marilyn watched his eyes, Gibbons confidently looking back into her own. "We aren’t going to be here for much longer. If anyone notices, we’ll just tell them I’m feeling a little sick." He quietly said, lowering his arm back by his side.
Marilyn nodded, but her eyes were a little uneasy. Slowly, she said "Eh...Right, yeah. There wasn’t any other way this could happen." He nodded. "Right." He agreed. Her eyes becoming more assured, she said "We’ll handle this like we always handle things. This is the last step, anyway. We’ll be fine." He gave her another nod. He reached over, finding her hip with his hand. He came close, kissing her without warning. Marilyn returned the oral embrace, closing her eyes, grabbing him by his elbows. He had only intended to kiss her once, but neither of them had been able to part until they had shared a second fiery kiss. Then, they released each other. He smiled warmly at her, Marilyn letting an affectionate little smile grow on her face. He gave her a wink before he started walking over towards the doorway, Marilyn watching him for a second before sighing quietly, walking after him.
Brute was breathing deeply and slowly, his torture having been just as much a test of his Heroic endurance as Darrah’s or Bianca’s. Considering he was quite obviously a powerful Hero of Strength, the League inquisitors had been very careful to secure him as tightly as possible, preventing him from trying to break free. The torture he had faced had, like Darrah’s, unfortunately involved his nether regions. His sole interrogator, a woman, had gleefully bragged about having invented the torture herself, and delighted in recalling how many individuals had already fallen prey to it, as well as their reactions to the pain. Brute, kept on his knees on the floor, had had his arms secured to his chest through the use of chains. The chains had been wrapped around his body just tight enough to keep him restrained, while not tight enough to compress his chest and fatally limit his breathing. Like with Darrah, a pair of chains extended from the walls on either side of him, hooking into the chains wrapped around his body.
Pulled taut on either side of him, they prevented him from moving to either side, keeping him in place. Jutting up from the floor beneath him, a metal spike, several inches long, was pointed dangerously up towards his groin. To keep from sitting down on the spike, Brute had to remain up on his knees. That wasn’t much of a challenge in and of itself, but that wasn’t the main idea behind the torture. Every now and then, his torturer would hook a weight on to his body, attaching it somewhere on the chains wrapped around his torso. Each weight made it more difficult to stay up on his knees, making it more and more of a struggle to stay above the spike. Eventually, his torturer would smugly gloat, he would either give in, or he’d have so many weights put on him that he’d simply lose his strength and collapse down on the spike. After hours of weights slowly being added to his burden, Brute already felt like he was carrying two other people over his shoulders.
With single-minded determination, however, he refused to give in, he refused to give his sadistic torturer satisfaction in seeing him fail. The inquisitor had, at first, not seemed bothered by his resistance. Everyone resisted at first, she would say. But as the hours wore on and night turned to day, Brute could tell, with no small amount of enjoyment, that the inquisitor was becoming annoyed. She would try to hide it, but he could tell that she was getting impatient. Ultimately, another inquisitor visited the room, and asked for a report on the torturer’s progress. She had little to show for her efforts; she hadn’t even bothered to ask many questions of Brute, so focused was she on the torture, itself. That annoyed the second inquisitor, who demanded that the first do her duty and actually question Brute, instead of simply "getting sick kicks", as he put it. In anger, both inquisitors had left for an hour, Brute pleased to be left alone and given a stretch of time without the threat of someone making the weight of his burden worse.
Eventually, however, the torturer had returned, the female inquisitor loudly slamming the metal door shut behind herself. She was dressed like any other League member, her dark coat being buttoned up. She looked to be in her early thirties, her hair long and auburn, flowing over her coat behind her. Her eyes were deep green, sparkling with malice. She glared angrily at Brute, seeing that he had still not collapsed down on the spike extending from the floor. Brute had, like Darrah, already been stripped out of his clothing, forced into patchy scraps poorly mimicking clothing. He had a little smile on his face, obviously enjoying seeing her so worked up. Quickly walking up to him, she coldly said "You’re lucky Leroy’s here, otherwise I wouldn’t have to put up with this shit. I don’t want answers from you, I don’t care. You deserve to suffer, and sooner or later, you’re gonna sit down on that thing, and it’s gonna stab right up through you from anywhere between your balls and your ass. You have any idea how much that’s gonna hurt? I’ve seen grown men scream and cry like little girly sissies, when they end up sitting."
Brute let out a little laugh, staring defiantly at the inquisitor. He said nothing, simply starting to grin. Her face started to steam red with emotional anger. Bending over far, she put her hands to her hips, bringing her face near his. Her eyes narrowed to slits, she quietly muttered out "I could ram you down on that thing, if I wanted to. But, no...That’d be too easy. It’d be much more terrifying for you, more anguishing, for you to deal with the torment of resisting...I’ll put more weights on you until, slowly, you’re brought to your breaking point...You’ll fight to the very end, and then, in one sudden moment, you’ll break...And then..." The inquisitor started to grin, slowly standing back up. Brute was grinning, too, as he slowly said "You’re one sick puppy, you know that?" The inquisitor almost giggled, walking over to a table placed at the back of the room, behind Brute. Smugly, and a little knowingly, she said "Yep. And I bet you’d put me down, if you could get free. Bigger Heroes than you have been in those chains, though, and none of them could get free...You have no power here. In this room, I’m your goddess, and I want to see you in pain."
Brute chuckled a little, rolling his eyes, saying "Yeah, give it a rest, why don’t you? I figured out you were a wannabe dominatrix a few hours back. You’re not scaring me, lady." The woman needed a moment to get herself back under control, her jaw clenched tight, her face going red, again. Over the table rested several more of the weights attachable to Brute’s chains, the woman’s hands resting on one. At being mocked, she had almost whirled around and swung one of the weights into the top of his skull, but she knew that if she killed yet another captive, she might find herself chained up over a spike, too. His execution was close, he would die, soon...And yet, quite aggravatingly, he hadn’t fallen for her torture, yet. She considered requesting to have his execution delayed, but after having it confirmed that she had so far hardly even questioned Brute, she doubted the administrator would allow her more time. To have him slip through her grasp and go to his execution without losing to her, without failing and suffering to her devised torture, was an infuriating idea she simply could not accept.
Slowly starting to smile a little, she picked up the weight, walking over towards him from behind. The weight was comprised of a metal sphere, about the size of her fist, attached to a small hook via metal chain. Slipping the hook into one of the links to the chains wrapped around him, she let it go, letting it hang down and pull him towards the floor. Still, he refused to sit, ignoring the weight just as he resisted and ignored the others, already in place. "You must think you’ve got me all figured out." She said, a little condescendingly. Brute slowly exhaled, sweating as he held up the weight fighting against him. "Of course not." He simply said. She walked around and got in front of him, raising an eyebrow, still smiling a bit. Her expression was cool, calm, and in control, the inquisitor trying to regain her edge over him, trying to put him off balance by appearing just a little arrogant. Her smile weakened when he, too, began to smile.
"I just figure you’ve got a problem with guys, in general. Why else would you have come up with something like this? You’re coming at me like we’ve got a personal problem, but we only just met a couple of hours, ago." The woman’s smile died, completely. Crossing her arms over her chest, she flatly said "Okay, enough games. What did you do after the Guild fell? You’re too old to be an apprentice." Brute started to smile more, trying not to sound amused as he said "Oh, uh...Jeez, lemme think...Oh, yeah. I went all across Albion, using and abusing women, breaking hearts and stealing virginities wherever I went. Does that upset you?" The woman’s face slowly started to get red, her brow sinking. She ignored him, asking another question. "How did you avoid capture, for all this time?" Brute started to grin. Looking her in the eyes, he said "I dug a hole in the ground and buried my head. I couldn’t see you, so you couldn’t see me. How ‘bout that?"
The inquisitor’s jaw started to tighten up, her teeth grinding together. Through grit teeth, she got out a third question. "I’m sure you know where other Heroes are. Did anyone help you? What sympathizers gave you aid?" Brute almost laughed as he defiantly said "Your mother was real sympathetic." The woman’s eyes went wide. Swinging her hands over, she repeatedly slapped Brute over the sides of his face, hitting him as hard and as fast as she could. She had slapped him over twenty times by the time she finally stopped, breathing a little hard, staring at him with obvious fury. Leaning over, she brought a finger up under his chin, pointing at him accusingly. "One more remark out of you, just one, and I’ll have a cupful of broken glass chunks slammed against your sensitive parts, you got that?! You’re mine until it’s time for your execution, I can do whatever I want with you. As long as you don’t die until you’re out in the arena, it doesn’t really matter what I do to hurt you."
Her slaps had succeeded in killing the grin on Brute’s face, but they had been equally successful in putting cold, absolute hate in his eyes. Staring back into her eyes, his tone was remarkably calm, and just a little unnervingly low, as he said "Alright, fine. Being sarcastic and taking shots at people isn’t my way, anyway. So, I won’t bother beating around the bush, anymore. I’ll make myself perfectly clear for you, this one time." The woman turned her head to the side a little, raising an eyebrow, trying not to let him see that she was taken aback by his sudden change in behaviour. Brute’s brow started to sink as he flatly said "I’m not telling you anything, partly because I don’t really think I have anything to say, and partly because I’m really not afraid of you. You’re just a little girl that had other people get me in a subdued position, and I know that, at any other time, I could tear you apart with my bare hands. You’re nothing. I’m not even scared of this little idea you’ve come up with for torture. Doesn’t mean I’m going to just sit down on it and let it happen, but there are worse things that could be done. So if you think you’re going to be able to intimidate me into giving up someone I care about, you are very, very mistaken. You might as well chuck all those weights on to me now, ‘cause I don’t think you’ll be able to beat me, otherwise."
The woman’s jaw rolled around, fury burning in her eyes, his open defiance making her sneer. "Is that so?" She merely asked. Brute raised his eyebrows, coolly saying "When I get taken to my execution, you better hide, ‘cause if I see you and I think I have a chance to break away, you can be sure I’ll try to get my hands around your little neck. You won’t be so tough, then." The woman’s face started to go red, again. She stood up straight, once more. "You’re gonna regret those words." She muttered out, her hands clenching into fists. Brute would’ve shrugged, were the weights not pulling his shoulders down. Raising his chin a little, he simply said "Try it." The woman slowly took a few steps backwards, a wide, malicious grin beginning to grow on her face. "I’ll be back." She simply said, rather ominously. "I’ll be waiting." Brute said, just a little tauntingly. The inquisitor let out a little laugh, turning and walking over towards the metal door across from him.
Pulling it open, she stepped outside, yanking it shut behind herself. As soon as she was outside, her expression went twisted with wrath. How dare he? How dare he be so insubordinate? If there was one thing she hated, it was a captive trying to challenge her during their questioning and torture, a captive that thought they were more powerful than she was. She was in control, not him! Marching away from Brute’s interrogation chamber, she headed off for the armoury. She’d fix him, she’d fix his attitude...All she needed was a few more tools to work with.
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Fable : Fall of the Guild