Author Note: The mangled mess has been fixed. Please leave a review, and tell me what you think!
Thank you, and enjoy.
He gazed at his assortment of tools. The tools he used to get the needed answers. He did not deal in bribes or threats. He dealt in pain. It was a gruesome, but simple trade.
New flesh was brought in, and it was his job to wring the confessions out, like a wet cloth, until they were all but dry. However, there was a catch:
Not even he knew what he needed them to confess.
He wrote down every word uttered, and let his superiors decide whether or not it was sufficient, and what They wanted.
They'd keep prisoners a week at least. No matter what. If the superiors were not satisfied, two weeks. More.
He was just making them talk until nothing was left. Until They decided nothing was left.
The groans of pain and pleas of mercy fell upon deaf ears. There was once a time when he cringed at the sound of their pained voices. Once.
He hadn't had a job for a while, and he was eager to practice his trade. What good is a painter if he cannot paint?
Just him and the new flesh, alone in a room, together. An intimate setting.
He shut and locked the door, to guarantee no disturbances. He was an artist. Distractions would affect his brush strokes.
It was a small room. Blood stains dotted the walls and floor. Shackles and chains lay about, attached to the floor and walls. Even the ceiling. It was cold here, the room was entirely made of stone. It was the ideal place to use his instruments.
After picking out his tool, he examined his prey, chained to the floor in a far corner, in nothing but rags.
Young Nord female, hair like a raven's feathers, amber colored eyes, full lips, soft features.
For a moment, she was beautiful to him. Just for a moment.
Then she started whimpering.
He rolled his eyes as he squatted to look in her pretty amber eyes. He had to force her chin up by grabbing her jaw.
"Please, have mercy. I've nothing to hide. I'll tell you all you want to know."
He didn't like hearing this, and wished he wasn't listening. He didn't know what They wanted to know, and he didn't know why that was, but he dare not question.
He sighed. Such a pretty Nord woman. Would he have to hurt her?
She started crying again, praying. Then begged him not to kill her. He stood, sighing again.
"Killing you is not my job." He said, silencing the sobs. He tugged upward on his mask, insuring it's security, and down on his hood. Only his eyes were visible.
"If I tell you everything, you'll let me go?" She asked, her eyes pleading with his own. He nodded, despite the fact that it wasn't entirely true. That's when words spilled from her mouth. He quickly grabbed his journal and wrote it all down.
"My name is Haelyn. I'm from a small village up north. My family has no title or fortune. There is nothing else!"
He knew better. Why would she have been captured?
He jerked her face upward, and she yelped. His knife edge traced her jawline.
"My brother is in with the Thieves Guild!" She cried, and he stopped, letting her go and writing it down. Surely this was what They wanted from her.
He gathered his things and left. He would be back.
The next two days were uneventful. He simply awaited the response his information would get. He felt quite pleased with himself. It wasn't often that he didn't need to spill blood. He had left the Nord prisoner in peace.
But on the third day, when he returned to the cell, he found her weeping in a corner, her face bruised. Who dared to interfere with his work? He left to inquire, and found the explanation behind the interference.
Bursting through the door loudly, he advanced the trembling female.
"You lied!" He grabbed a tool, and took her by the wrist. "I didn't want to ruin such a pretty face, but you gave me false information-"
"Did they hurt you too?" The weakly voiced question surprised him. So much so, that he just stared at her, and lowered the sharp torture instrument. Was she...concerned for him? His eyes widened, and though it couldn't be seen, his mouth was parted in surprise as well. She looked up at him with watery eyes, one of them nearly swollen shut from being struck. He felt his own wound ache as he stared at hers. Yes, they had punished him. Not succeeding at your role had it's consequences, he found. This was his first time suffering from failure. He was normally the best at what he did.
"I'm so sorry I lied." She grabbed his forearm this time. He flinched. "I didn't know what else to do." She started crying. "You would've hurt me if I hadn't made something up." Watching her, feeling her gentle grip on his arm, hearing her words he felt...
He felt pity.
The desperation in those beautiful, innocent eyes, it was... He shook his head. He needed to leave.
And so he stormed out of the cell.
Pity. It had been a long time since he felt it. And he did not enjoy it.