…Frankenstein often toed the line at the very brink of mortality; of life, death, and unlife.
Frankenstein followed behind his master dutifully. Lukedonia's interrogation chambers were rather more grandiose than he had expected.
The clan leaders had suggested physical discipline.
He hesitantly raised his head to meet his master's gaze. To his surprise, he found no expression of condemnation or judgement upon it. He recollected the Noblesse's previous words. 'I commend your explorations Frankenstein, however I cannot condone your treatment of the creature. As such... ' he gestured at the equipment about him. His master's face was impassive, the piercing crimson gaze settling upon his slave's features. He reiterated his words, "Your explorations at the brink of mortality are not grounds for condemnation, Frankenstein. However...I cannot abide your treatment of the creature."
Raizel was referencing his infamous monster. The words settled about him like a like a knife in his consciousness.
Truly, it was not the nature of the explorations themselves, but the irresponsible results of a single, ill-conceived experiment which had his master so irate.
But of course, his master would find his latest experiment unsavory! When exploring a phenomena as multifaceted as death, it was sometimes necessary to adopt a…flexible…approach.
Standing, now, Raizel walked a quarter circle about the kneeling figure, silently regarding him, his face carefully blank and unreadable.
"Frankenstein."
"Yes, Master?"
"You may select your own punishment."
He had, up until this point, kept his head lowered.
His eyes alighted upon the first instrument of relentless agony—a chair which had been studded with iron spikes, alongside, no doubt, a mechanism of weighting-down or otherwise tugging the victim until they were properly impaled by the device. The second, directly across from it, was an electrical device—a contraption no doubt used for inflicting non-lethal, low voltage electrocution via a set of flexible electrodes, and at the very center of the room, there was what appeared to be a surgical table, with an array of knives and razor blades and other implements suspended by a conveniently located steel mesh. Off to one side resided a device which very much resembled an inclined table, complete with restraints and a rotating iron turntable.
Judas' Cradle. Spanish Donkey. Brazen Bull. Restraints embedded in the wall across from him. His mind seemed to mentally catalog these in slow motion before his eyes drifted towards a relatively non-descript set of shelves in a small nook at the far corner of the room.
He proceeded towards it.
The cabinet held an endlessly creative set of torments. Among them, he discovered an array of pincers, pliers, and tongs. The Lukedonians were certainly well-stocked, however rare the use of the implements, Frankenstein mused darkly. He felt a faint stab of mirth. This mental note seemed to elicit a sidelong glance from his master. He immediately schooled his features into the respectful semblance of contrition.
The noblesse replaced the aptly-named "cat's paw" on the shelf, fingertips trembling ever-so-slightly, his back still turned towards his human servant.
A dull brown armchair, nearly comically out-of-place within its surroundings, was perched at the far end of the room, nearly five feet away from the rack. The Noblesse seated himself upon it as Frankenstein continued to make his way about the chamber.
A medieval pear. Another device for use on a subject's hands, which was capable of easily crushing fingerbones. He eyed a metal plate and glove, which, when heated, looked capable of causing first-degree burns. his hands briefly traced the clean lines of the device before falling back at his sides, detecting only the vaguest hint of disapproval through their link. There was an enormous selection of knives and a simple ladle. He nearly made his decision then, when a third set of implements caught his eye.
A coiled single-tail braided whip, lined and studded with what appeared to be glass, and next to it, a multi-tail scourging whip, commonly known as a flagrum, with rough-hewn sheep bones at the far end of each of the tails. After several minutes of contemplation, he selected the first.
Having inspected the implements, Frankenstein came to kneel, whip held within his outstretched palms in a manner of an offering.
He would not humor his Master by selecting an instrument wildly disproportionate to the crime, and any other perceived infraction that went along with it. His selection of punishment, he felt, was an honest one.
Raizel hefted a bronze mask from one of the shelves, fastening it behind his head. Whether this served as eye protection, or as humiliation, he was not sure. He suspected both.
A heavy, weighty silence permeated the chamber. Frankenstein kept his hands firmly placed against the wall in front of him.
When the seconds stretched into entire minutes, Frankenstein was forced to heave a sigh. "Please do not hesitate so much. I may just turn around at an inopportune moment." This seemed to be the impetus that spurred him on, as Raizel drank in the vast expanse of unmarred flesh with reluctance.
His body quivered and shuddered slightly upon the first stroke, growing acclimatized to the sudden onslaught of pain. His soul was already full to the brim with Love for the man, just as it was in his daily activities. A vague sense of pride filled is chest—pride in his Master, who would not let him go unpunished.
The barbed whip traced patterns over his flesh. It briefly cut and dug above, but not into, his right hipbone. His fingers scrabbled against the wall until he regained his self-control. Even the slightest signs of intolerable pain, light-headedness, or disorientation would be construed as a signal to stop by Sir Raizel. Or make things more difficult for his already soft-hearted master. Sweaty fingers reflexively dug more deeply into the indentations left by the weathered rock.
A brief, rattling breath. And another. Once again, his fingers easily found the indentations in the rock, pinching it for all it was worth.
Blood dribbled freely down his sides and began to collect at the waistband of his pants. It slowly begun to soak through the thick fabric there.
As his blood now began to soak through the pants he was wearing, nearly to the point of saturation in certain areas, it was beginning to dye his socks crimson. He idly began to wonder how much blood he had lost. It had been at least the recommended three-pints, in his clinical estimation. He briefly reflected that he had performed surgeries in the past which had entailed less blood loss.
As the Noblesse, Raizel was inexperienced at administering punishments aside from execution/forced eternal sleep. His Master's movements were imprecise, deviating wildly, at times, from the target area and safe zones, and Frankenstein had not had the foresight to respectfully instruct him.
It was a delicious, searing pain that burned, throbbed, and ached afterwards with every movement he made, no matter how minor. The manner in which his Master's fingertips ghosted over the red lines was hesitant, and held a slight tremble.
Raizel's fingertips continued their erratic movement, continuing to hold a slight, uncertain tremble as they ran over the angry red lines on Frankenstein's back, betraying his innate compassion and everything wonderful that made Raizel who he was. It was frankly ludicrous. But why should his Master have even the slightest concern for one such as he, with the incredible weight of his sins?
He was left with the distinct tang of coagulating blood in his nostrils.
Raizel's voice held a slight quiver, "Frankenstein, I believe that is enough."
Frankenstein leaned over, moving to retrieve his shirt. He spontaneously decided that he would wait for the wounds to scab over before putting it back on.
Frankenstein grinned at the wall in front of him. He would need to make (minor) transgressions more often, and hope that they added up.
Would they leave permanent marks?
In the manner of an expert, he washed and dried the leather, removing any specks of dried blood and grime that had adhered to it, before hanging it out on the rack to dry.
Raizel watched his servant. Frankenstein was humming a low-tune as he worked, washing and drying the leather with the practiced ease of someone who had done this before—
…but where, poor Raizel couldn't begin to imagine.