A pause, he left her glass where it was and stretched to retrieve his own still more than half full, pulling it across the table to the seat Qosta just vacated. Emryc wasn't used to entertaining for Qosta - that usually went to Archon. The Beta was far more social and a much better conversationalist. Qosta didn't call on Emryc for conversation, he called on him for information. There was a very big difference between the two, one that the Handler was all too keen to maintain.
He settled into the chair, straight-backed, angled so that when he lifted his gaze it wasn't looking quite at Aver but just over her shoulder.
"I keep his men, contacts and sources in line," Emryc replied in a voice that was far deeper than the boy that had shown Aver Brand around Qosta territory years ago, "and get him the information he needs," A brief glance, churning grey storm met unyielding ice.
What did he enjoy?
Now there's a question he hadn't answered in a long time. The man's lips drew thin and his throat dry, he lifted his glass for another drink, blinking to look away.
He enjoyed silence. Stillness. The sigh of death; a sound that meant his job was done and that he could go home and leave the torturous noise and quaking of his heart behind for the quiet tinkering of lifeless, inanimate objects.
He enjoyed the feeling of armor stained with blood and magic soot peeling away from his body like shedding a soiled layer of skin. The sensation of scalding water rinsing away the terror of his day. Cleaning the blood out from beneath his nails. Honing the edge of his sword to clean the rotting skin and dried blood from the steel. How the smell of hot iron flooded away the odor of singed flesh.
"I collect blades," a simple reply. Maybe too simple. "Repair, clean and refurbish broken and antiques." That was better.
“You’re a torturer,” she summed up his roundabout answer. Never was one for beating around the bush, really. “And the method keeps you sane.”
The man didn't look up at the answer. Gave her no indication that she was right, nor any reason to believe she was wrong. His unwavering stare at some poor, unsuspecting speck in the marble floor was his only admission to anything. Emryc Qosta did as he was told because he was told to do it. Enjoyment had nothing to do with any of it. A pressing desire to stay alive, however ...
You don't go for the pain that knocks them out, you go for the pain that gets them talking. You ain't gatta be a killer boy, what you gatta be is an information extractor. They gatta be breathing to talk, ya hear? Get the info, pack 'em up. If putting them out of their misery at the end of it makes you sleep better at night ain't nobody frownin' at you but yourself.
Archon had been particularly candid about the training. He remembered his first subject with hideous clarity, as well as the many others that came after. The memories made it difficult to sleep at night.
