Post #2728333 in The Canticle of Fate, a roleplay on RPG

Cyrus found himself in a rather delicate conundrum.

On the one hand, Zahra—his friend, he could acknowledge that now—was currently having what Stellulam might possibly have referred to as a moment. No doubt a perfectly-understandable one, considering that she now stood face-to-face, or close enough, with her brother. Someone she hadn't seen in years, who'd solicited her help due to his own imprisonment. And who, he noted, seemed quite friendly with their entirely untrustworthy guide.

He of all people understood the potential significance of a bond between siblings. Even if this wasn't quite that, it was something, and the moment deserved its due.

On the other hand, they were standing in the middle of the residence of what was obviously the kind of family that gave everyone in the Imperium their terrible reputations for outright despicability and evil so obvious it was practically gauche. While there was probably a servant on the way to inform someone that at least one unwelcome intruder was in the house. A house where there were who-knew-how-many guards, several possibly time-sensitive rescues to be conducted, and the still-looming matter of a price Zahra might not be willing to pay.

Well. He supposed he could play the insensitive arse with all that in mind. It was a role he'd had a lot of practice for. “Not that this isn't interesting." He drawled the words, inflecting them with a touch of sarcasm. “But if possible, it would be wiser to let the warm family reunions wait for later. We're on a bit of a mission here, and I think we really ought to keep moving." He let his eyes fall on Maleus. “Your mother and siblings: where are they, precisely?"

As if she were shaking off the last remnants of a dream, Zahra was jarred from her gawping stupor. “Yeah, you’re right… of course, this can wait.” Her words sounded far too self-imposed to be for anyone else’s benefit. While she may have wanted to linger there, there was a sense that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself even if they had. A bad idea all around. She finally let go of Leon’s arm and stepped a little further in, sticking her hand out in order to pull Maleus back to his feet. He accepted it easily enough, his smile a shade softer this time. His composure read volumes; he had expected to see her, while she might have doubted he still lived.

A possibility given the Contee’s postulated cruelty.

Scratching at his neckline once more, Maleus turned to face Cyrus properly. He inclined his head towards the darkened hallway behind him, “This way. Further in. Mum’s in the furthest cell.” There was a pause, where his gaze flicked onto Corveus still standing at the rear, then traced its way to Zahra, “It’s only her and I here, though. The rest are spread out across Minrathous. Sev, he—” His words trailed off. A southern, barbaric lilt. An ugly baritone, born from the poor fishermen’s village he hailed from. No doubt a source of disappointment to his domina. He seemed to think better of it, whatever it was. From the knit of his brows, nothing good. “Ah, that’ll wait, too. Let’s go, before we have company, no?”

Corveus pushed past them into the hallway, clearly as interested in moving along as Cyrus was, flicking his wrist towards the empty sconces set against each wall, in ten foot intervals. Each one lit up, casting blue light, instead of regular, red flames. Unnatural. Enchanted, like every damn thing in the estate seemed to be. “The cell he speaks of is Yda’s chamber. Hedge-witches are far more useful when unchained, but left in the dark.” He leveled a stare in Zahra’s direction, though quickly looked away when she noticed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, taking the first step forward, only lingering long enough to make sure that they were all moving as well.

The hallway itself was far longer than the one they’d previously walked down. The scenery, however, had changed drastically. It resembled Skyhold’s cobblestone dungeon, plain and undecorated, no longer holding any Tevinter finery. Several doors could be seen ahead, on either side. Some were merely cells, barred in iron. Zee seemed to be chewing on the inside of her mouth, mulling. Her own version of brooding. She had never been good at containing herself, though for their benefit, she was doing well not to bombard her brother with questions. Instead, she seemed intent on the flames flickering at their sides, glancing at the barred doors ahead. Focusing her efforts on the task at hand. She seemed to understand well enough how things could go if they weren’t vigilant.

Comparably, Maleus had no trouble pestering them with his own inquiries. He walked alongside Cyrus, eyes alight. His energy was palpable, and might have been contagious if it hadn’t been for unfortunate circumstances, “You’re Cyrus, aren’t you? The Lady Inquisitor’s brother? I heard from—… well, from Corv.” He seemed somewhat abashed by the implications, casting his gaze downward, if only for a moment, “Is it true what they say? That she’s like wildfire, bravest warrior in all of Thedas, banishing demons with the flick of her wrist?”

Cyrus had the distinct feeling that Stellulam would be tripping over herself to deny basically all of that, but as it happened, she wasn't here. The temptation to allow the information to pass with a simple confirmation was almost too difficult to resist, but he could already imagine her frustration with him if he did. Besides, the truth hardly needed to be embellished. “It's not so easy as that to banish demons, for anyone." He shrugged. “But she is both extraordinarily brave and the hardest-working person I know."

He blinked, glancing at Romulus for a moment before moving his attention back to Maleus. “The Lord Inquisitor is similarly impressive, but you can ask him about that yourself."

Romulus spared Zahra's brother a glance, one that might've been annoyed, but after that his eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, clearly expecting trouble. "Or you could wait to ask until we're safely out of here."

Maleus’s countenance seemed to shift. Excited, giddy. Obviously, he’d heard a lot about them. No doubt, whispers had traveled through the grapevine, as well. Tevinter was a hub of knowledge, and information. It sifted through the marketplace, and all the spidery connections magisters possessed. The Inquisition’s deeds carried further than their mountains, most likely in their taverns, warbled from the mouths of singers and bards. Grandiose, exaggerated tales, if Maleus was anything to go by. He turned towards Romulus and seemed stifled into silence, bobbing his head in an obedient nod. If anyone understood the gravity of their situation, it was he. Perhaps most of all, given the fact that he’d lived in the estate for this long.

“I’d advise not touching the walls,” Corveus glanced at Zahra’s brother in particular, swinging his gaze back towards the lengthy hall, “and steer clear of the other cells and doors. We aren’t alone here, but they are beyond our reach.” He seemed to be cutting a clear boundary. There would be no heroics, especially if they intended to spirit Yda, and Maleus, away from this place. The likelihood of saving everyone in this place was futile, hopeless, even if they’d wanted to. The slaves did not seem as if they were treated particularly well, and from what little Cyrus knew about the Contee family, there was a good chance that they were being used for nefarious purposes, other than their subjugated duties. He did not elaborate.

Something in Cyrus rebelled against that. Both the stricture and the very idea of any efforts they should make being hopeless. He hadn't believed in hopeless, once. He wondered if he did now—his first instinct didn't seem to allow it, but perhaps, for now, he'd keep a lid on himself. The strategic thing to do was wait to act until he had all the information, knew all the whys and hows and wherefores. Even the what sort of eluded him at the moment; Corveus was hardly forthcoming about any of this.

The hallway’s grim interior did not improve at they walked. If it was at all possible, it deteriorated. Resembling closely to the catacombs they’d initially traversed, though without the repugnant smell. There was a scent, however. Coppery, stale. A mixture of plight and venerable fossils, relics long buried, and transformed to suit another purpose. The cobblestone walls gave way to old, archaic Dwarven architecture, which was unsurprising given the fact that most of Tevinter’s quarters had been built onto Dwarvish backbones, utilizing their foundation rather than starting anew. They were great innovators, in that respect.

Further in, other noises could be heard. The trickling of water, and feeble moans; hoarse, coming from a throat that may have been worn from screaming. Corveus was intent on ignoring them, leading at the front of their group, face obscured from view. Zahra’s footsteps were less assured, and she nearly walked into Leon’s back a few times. She peered through the bars of the cells as they walked passed, lips peeling from her teeth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. There were people here, set into each of the crypts; remodeled into holding cells. Bereft of the glamour they’d left behind. Or any natural rights. From what Cyrus could see, they’d been left with a chamber pot, a bowl, and little else in the means of comfort.

Each one donned the same collar that Maleus wore, welded around their necks. Their state of health varied. It was clear, however, that they had been treated much worse. Ribs stuck out, skin stretched over like ghastly, waxen canvases. Knobby knees, grated elbows. Wrists held tight to their chests. There were elves, humans, as well as some Qunari. Some were heavily bandaged, while others were simply scarred from head to toe. They wore little more than rags, stained brown and red. The feeble torchlight made them look like specters, cradling themselves in the darkness. Their dirty faces swung to face them as they passed, watching in silence. If hope still existed in this place, it was a small, paltry thing. Easily toppled over. Those who had been moaning or quietly weeping called after them, begging for an end. To be killed. To be saved. To flee, to leave. A motley of appeals, none particularly pleasant.

For all his years in the heart of the Imperium, he had never seen anything like this. This wasn't the strategic exploitation of people as a resource, despicable but measured, considered, weighed out for maximum effect. It wasn't even garden-variety cruelty, like working one's slaves too long or being meager with their necessities when they displeased a dominus or domina. The cruelty was neither savvy nor purposeful nor on the level of ordinary malice. It was just... gratuitous. Cruelty without point or reason or even the shadow of a justification. Necessary for nothing, useful in no way. Just pain, visited upon people who had done nothing to deserve it. No one could deserve something like this.

He'd seen all kinds of cruelty in his life. Been on the receiving end of more than a bit of it. Visited more than a bit upon others, too. But this... nothing like this. This wasn't the sickness at the heart of Tevinter. His homeland, for all its faults, was not this. Cyrus swallowed back his bile, almost choking on it. Something hot and uncomfortable settled in the middle of his chest, like a little ember trying to burn its way out of him, or into his blood, or something.

The sound of someone begging for death. How many years had it been, now? The heat pricked behind his eyes. Even that was the cruelty of a moment shorter than this, one impossible choice, an abrupt end to a life that had been better than one of these. Had at least deserved to be called a life. His hands curled into fists, shaking.

Apparently, Zahra had seen enough. Perhaps, this was a breed of cruelty she hadn’t seen. Raiders weren’t known for being cordial, nor considerate, in their exploits, but no doubt this was new to her as well. Her expression darkened. She took quicker steps to catch up to Corveus, snatching onto his arm, tugging him back a few paces. “You knew about this? You allowed this?” A snarl, a tone all too familiar, one she’d taken up with Garland. It bore dangerous inflections, the type of anger that usually ended with fists.

Corveus shook her hand off, sighing harshly through his nose, “Nothing is forbidden. No one is inviolable. Not even I.” He turned once more, stalking off down the hallway.

Zahra stared after him, falling back into place. She did not chase after him, as Cyrus may have expected. Her attention focused on Maleus for a moment before she joined Cyrus at his side, mouth forming a hard line. No doubt imagining what he had gone through at their hands, with Corveus fully aware. “I want them dead. This damn family.”

Cyrus barely heard her. If there was a limit to be hit, a sort of maximal amount of horror one could take before one was simply compelled to do something about it, then he'd hit his with Corveus's easy dismissal of what was taking place here. Never mind cruel, never mind evil. That kind of coldness didn't even seem to be human. How anyone with a soul or even a working mind could just walk right past this kind of thing and simply say that it wasn't forbidden—could outright deter them from helping—was something he simply couldn't understand.

In half a dozen swift, quiet strides, Cyrus overtook Corveus, seizing him by the back of his collar and using his not-inconsiderable strength to throw him into the nearest section of solid wall. Pulling one of his swords free of its sheath, he followed, bunching the fabric at the other man's neck in his free hand and angling the end of the blade for his face. “Nothing is forbidden?" His voice cracked over his incredulity and derision, too much feeling forced into three words. “Do you have any idea what you're saying? You think we need you so badly that we'll bypass something like this without a word? Cast back through that precious information of yours, and tell me you really believe we couldn't do this without you. If you actually understand who we are, you know we'd find a way. You're looking less and less necessary by the moment, Corveus." A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth painfully tight, the edge of the sword just shy of drawing the other man's blood.

“Seems to me Maleus could lead us around just fine. And if we need your blood so badly, I think I can figure out how to make it happen." His lip curled, but the sword laying against Corveus's neck was strangely steadier than he'd expected it to be.

Those were people. People. Just like Zahra's family. Just like Milo or Leta. Just like anyone else here. Cyrus would not pass them by because some sniveling, presumptuous would-be Magister said so. Whatever else Tevinter had made him, it had not made him capable of that.

Romulus stopped a few steps behind him, barely in Cyrus's peripherals, his hand tightening around his blade's hilt. He checked behind them, keeping watch, but his eyes were just as wary of Corveus as any other threat they might encounter. If he disagreed with anything Cyrus was saying, he didn't speak up about it. Judging by how tense he was, he was bottling his own reaction and emotions to what they were seeing and hearing, and doing a better job of it than Cyrus. Still, it was obvious he was disturbed, as anyone would be.

A strangled hiss of breath exhaled from Corveus’s mouth as he was pushed up against the cobblestone wall, bricks biting into his shoulder-blades. If he had expected Cyrus’s wrath, his bubbling anger, voracious and stifling as it was, he certainly did not show it. The veneer of calm remained, as immutable as one stricken Tranquil. He even leaned forward, against the pricking end of his blade, allowing it to cut into his hollowed cheekbone. A line of sanguine slipped down his neckline, staining the white collar of his shirt. His mouth formed a line, features twisting in the flickering torchlight. He didn’t weigh much, considering how easy it was to push him to the side, held by the collar of his jacket. From this close, it was evident that he was not in the best of health either. Hollowed, nearly black eyes stared at him, “Nothing and no one.” He drew up a scar-riddled hand, criss-crossed like white and pink, puckered roots, setting it onto Cyrus’s wrist, “What do you know, Cyrus? You think this stops with them? That there have ever been boundaries here. Our cages are different, but our prisons are the same.”

Death did not frighten him. That much was painfully clear. Perhaps he yearned for it, the way he was looking at him. A silent plea, unspoken. At least they were brave enough to ask, desperate enough. He made no attempt to squirrel out of his grip. He hadn’t even tried to push the blade away. “You’re running out of time here. This place will swallow you whole if we don’t hurry. I know who you are, and what you ask is impossible. You’re good people, unsullied. But you know nothing about this place. Of my family, and the lengths they will go.” Unsullied, undefiled by things like this. His Adam's apple bobbed, inches away from the blades tip. There was no advocacy for mercy there, no exoneration for his behavior, rigid and cold as he appeared to be. Logic, however, in spades. “Do what you must.”

It was Maleus who elbowed his way to the side, collar jangling. Eyes wide as saucers, clearly having not expected this outburst. “No, no, please, ser. Stay your blade,” he was tripping over his words, hands held out, head bent, eyes averted, “We need him. Had he not… you wouldn’t have been able to…” A plea, desperate. Jumbled as it was. He seemed to be fighting an internal struggle, wanting to pull Cyrus off, and wanting to sink to his knees like an obedient servant. “Let him go.”

Zahra had stopped beside Romulus, chewing on the situation in silence. By her mild-mannered reaction, she didn’t seem all that concerned about Corveus’s welfare. She’d said as much, though it hadn’t been clear if the lordling was included in those she wished to see dead. She cleared her throat, however reluctantly. “We’d be no better, wouldn’t we? Killing someone when they’re no longer of any use.” Inflected, without a lick of chiding or judgment. She might have done the same. She might have been seconds away from it. But she hadn’t. “We’ll figure it out on the way back. Like we always do, with or without anyone’s permission.”

Had that been how he looked?

Like he was just about to carve up this man's face, without an ounce of hesitation?

Abruptly, Cyrus exhaled, pushing away from Corveus and returning the blade to his side. “I wasn't—" His teeth clicked as he forced his mouth shut, shaking his head. “We're getting these people out. If not now, then after. I don't care what your family's like." His free hand clenched, confusion and shame and something else welling in him. Frustration. The sense that he wasn't understood. Maybe because he didn't understand himself.

“If you'd just bloody well tell us what the hell we're even doing, this might be easier." It came out as more of a grumbled complaint than anything, and he backed off, trying not to feel like a scolded dog when he slunk back to the end of the group.

This was why he'd gone so long without trying to be a better person than he was. Clearly he didn't have the first fucking idea what he was doing. Now complete strangers probably thought he was—he closed his eyes, waving a hand noncommittally, as if to gesture everyone forward again.

Leon caught his eyes as he moved back, laying a large hand on Cyrus's shoulder. Even reddened by the alchemy still in his system, his own seemed to convey... sympathy maybe. Or at least a lack of fault with or blame for his reaction. He looked almost like he wanted to say something, but obviously rethought it, speaking to the group instead. "Let's hurry. Time is supposedly of the essence, yes?"

Snippet #2728333

located in Thedas, a part of The Canticle of Fate, one of the many universes on RPG.

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