Private Tales Hate or Glory

[Marcia]

Anirian voices.

In trying to note every possible detail, it couldn't be missed that both of these women spoke with the cadence of a commoner from Vel Anir itself. There was something particularly loathsome about their adversaries being their own countrymen, as if they didn't have enough enemies at their borders.

Traitors to their nation, another reason to find contempt in clenched teeth.

The rough red-headed woman lingered behind her, boots pacing in a manner that deserved a backwards glance, which was swiftly interrupted by a loud bang as the blonde slammed a fist down on the table.

"Eyes on me," she ordered stiffly, that edge of disdain appearing in the fissures of scar tissue,

Marcia complied, meeting the stare of the other woman with a defiant fury, a molten rage not deterred by the frigid hatred that stared back. It took an enormous amount of restraint not to accompany glare with a barrage of screamed obscenities, but from the moment they had hauled her out of their makeshift prison, the Initiate had decided on the course of silence.

They were trained for this moment, for interrogation. Her first session with Proctor Urahil had not gone well, at least not by her self-set and high standards. The girl had opted to lie and feign ignorance then, and instead tried to focus on the ceiling, but ended up psyching herself out. She hadn't cracked in a sense of divulging any secrets, but had cracked her head against the slab in a desperate attempt to make the pain stop.

It was a pass, but it wasn't a marker of an indomitable spirit, and that mediocrity haunted her.

"As I said, I'm going to ask you questions, and you will answer them. Do you understand?"

Silence.

The longest second in all the realms passed in tight-lipped rebellion, followed by another, and another, each lingering in a manner that only served to further pull on the tension in the room.

Then a sudden meaty thud.

The centre of her right hand erupted in pain, the other woman having abruptly cracked a hammer down upon it as it lay flat on the table. Immediately, Marcia cried out, more from the shock rather than the actual pain, and immediately brought her hands to her chest, cradling the injured flesh before finding some form of composure.

"It is in your best interests to answer honestly," her interrogator said impassively, still perfectly encased in her frigid, taut demeanour.

 

[Marcia]

The terms were clear.

They didn't give the impression of explicitly trained interrogators, with rudimentary brute force accompanying their questions as their technique of choice. Not that it was the time to consider the academic nature of applying pain to garner information, she didn't imagine these women took bloody classes on it.

"Hands back on the table," came the order from the mouthpiece, an order which Marcia blatantly defied, shooting the woman a look that very clearly said, I don't fucking think so.

The blonde leaned back in the chair opposite, taking the moment to massage her own jaw with her remaining hand until it clicked, releasing a small sigh of relief, the first indication that the woman was made of any other feeling bar frigid disdain.

"You should cooperate, short stuff," came the suggestion as an arm from behind hooked around Marcia's neck, pulling her upwards, the grinning face of the hammer-wielding woman loomed in her peripheral vision like a red omen. "Or I'm going to have to improvise, and you don't want me to improvise."

Short stuff!? How did they find a way to become more detestable after breaking her hand?

With a grunt, Marcia acquiesced, fully believing that she did not want to bear witness to this prick's attempt at torture improvisation, never mind be its target. Better the devil you know, even if that devil was intent on mangling her hands and fingers.

"Fuck me, a Dreadlord that makes good decisions. Now you don't see that every day," the woman crooned, releasing her hold on the Initiate's neck and letting her arse drop back onto the chair.

"What is your name?" The blonde asked dispassionately, lowering her hand back onto the table in a half-clenched fist. They contrasted well, hot and cold, unpredictable and measured, yet equally loathsome. Was it worse to be excited to inflict torment or indifferent in the face of it?

This time, her silence barely made a beat before the hammer returned, cracking down on the knuckles of Marcia's right hand, only eliciting a sharp inhale now that the element of surprise had been stripped from their tactics. Strangely, the Initiate felt emboldened in the moment; they were amateurs, and she was trained for this.

A ray of sunshine in shitty fucking circumstance.

 

[Marcia]

There were a great many things that Euan Cawdor wished to say.

The attitude that both Catrina and Marcia displayed for the entirety of this mission was entirely unhelpful, if not actively damaging. The constant needling, the unwillingness to cooperate, the fact that it wouldn't have been surprising were they to come to blows with one another. It was bordering on ridiculous, and were they to survive, it would very much be a focal point of his report.

So, he batted away that wish to speak out and chose to be productive instead, focusing his attention on the catatonic Initiate propped up against the wall like an afterthought to their rage.

It was awkward and undignified as Euan scooted his backside over to Gosia, the clinking of his chains caught in a duet with Bletzin, who he was happy to leave to attempt to overpower metal with nothing more than brute strength. The Initiate hadn't moved an inch since he had awoken, her eyes still lost in a void on the floor, only painting a grim picture of her time as a prisoner.

"Gosia," he said softly after reaching her, taking his place next to her, "I don't think w-we've ever spoken at the Academy. My name's Euan."

There was a pause, reserved for any reaction from the catatonic Initiate, but instead the silence was occupied by the faint shriek of Marcia from another room. The sound, which spoke of ill intentions, seemed to spur Catrina on to attempt to break the chains on her manacles, the pugilist having managed to contort herself so she could use her feet to push, while her arms pulled.

"I'm a healer," Cawdor blurted out, not wishing to be steeped in thoughts of one of his peers being tortured, "and while we don't have our m-muh-magic right now, I can still help." Up close, he could see the injuries on Gosia's face were not fresh, the bruising not accompanied by swelling, and the cuts had since scabbed over. A promising sign? Maybe. "D-do you have any wounds? Or... or broken bones?"

Nothing.

Just the strained sounds of Bletzin grunting in exertion before Lubin's brow finally furrowed. There was something there, hard to distinguish through candlelight and grime. Anger? No, something bitter.

"...I didn't deserve this."