Whumptober 2022 Prompts:
No. 7 Seizures
No. 10 Poor unfortunate souls

The prisoner might not agree with her assessment. No, wrong wording, he will definitely not agree with it. Nevertheless, it is true, she is not cruel by nature. The dire circumstances force her to be cruel, today more so than ever. As Vilgefortz was right. The previous afternoon, evening and night were so invigorating that Tissaia feels a hundred years younger, radiant, glowing and so full of magical energy that there is no way she won't succeed. Maybe it is only her imagination, but she can almost hear her chaos frizzle and sizzle all around her as she walks down the long corridors toward the interrogation room.

The prisoner is chained to the stone chair as requested. His clothes are still damp and he is trembling from the chilling temperatures of the dungeons. However, he straightens up perceptibly on hearing her enter. Very good. Recovered from yesterday morning's ordeal, at least to some degree, he will not again pass out too soon, hopefully. And if he does, she has come prepared this time. Just a pity that Vilgefortz had to leave right after breakfast to take care of some urgent political affair. Well, she can do it without the mage. She is not an Archmistress and one of the oldest living sorcerers on the continent for nothing.

"So, today it's just you and me again," she says as she quietly crosses the room and steps behind the chair.

"H-how d-delightful," the prisoner scoffs, his voice hoarse from screaming, the sarcasm only slightly impaired by the chattering of his teeth. Tissaia smiles with satisfaction. Not only conscious and able to speak coherently but also fit enough for snarky remarks, excellent. Amazing what a world of difference twenty-four torture free hours can make.

"Then I won't let you wait." Tissaia raises her hands and lightly touches Cahir's temples from behind. The prisoner winces reflexively at the touch of the sorceress's fingers although she has not started yet. Perhaps she will not have to? If he has learned his lesson and takes the smart choice. "Unless you are ready to talk on this delightfully sunny morning, of course?" she adds in as amicable a tone of voice as she can muster.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot, you cannot possibly know about the weather," she mocks when the man does not answer. Not overly smart then, but what did she expect from the stubborn Nilfgaardian? Maybe he is easier to convince if he can see her? If she looks him straight in the eye? With deft fingers, Tissaia unties the blindfold and lets it drop to the floor. It was not such a good idea after all as the fabric had a tendency to get in the way and close skin contact is vital to create the magical connection. The prisoner blinks against the sudden brightness. Well, brightness being quite relative down here in the dungeons, but today there are a few rays of sunlight that make it through the window high up in the wall behind her. Tissaia steps around the chair to face the failed Nilfgaardian commander.

"You see, Cahir, I've had a fantastic night," she goes on, not yet giving up her attempt to coax him into talking, "an extremely delightful one, and I would rather spend this beautiful day with more delightful pastimes than tearing your mind apart to get what I want. Which I will, eventually, you can bet your life on it." Tissaia pauses to let the words sink in. "Although it is not in my power to let you go," she then proceeds, looking the still shivering prisoner straight in the eye, "I could make your stay here at Aretuza, however long it may be, a lot less uncomfortable. I could be persuaded to dry your clothes, for example, and get you something to eat if you cooperate and tell me where Yennefer is."

"I don't k-know anything about that p-precious Yennefer of y-yours," the prisoner spits before he starts to double over in a coughing fit.

"My, my, seems like those temperatures down here don't agree with you. You'll probably catch a bad bronchitis or pneumonia soon," Tissaia sneers. Then she looks at the prisoner more closely. The laceration next to his bloodshot and swollen right eye appears to be infected and there is a faint feverish shine to his eyes, isn't there? "I would be willing to add a few woolen blankets to the deal. A nice, warm tea, too, and a soothing bronchial balsam. I could even heal that ugly cut in your face before it starts to fester. Think about it. This is my final offer."

"Y-You can shove your final offer up your p-prissy cunt," the prisoner hisses hoarsely, clenching his fists, every muscle in his body stiffening in expectation of the sorceress's reaction to his categorical and colourful denial. Which is not long in coming. Her first impulse being to slap the man in the face for his insulting words, Tissaia reins in her anger for a second to step behind him, grab him by the hair and pull his head backwards. She tightens her grip on Cahir's temples and, without further warning, releases her chaos. A powerful barrage of magical energy hits the prisoner's brain, cleaving every conscious thought into a thousand tiny fragments and scattering them like fallen leaves in a gale. Cahir gives a deafening scream that makes Tissaia's ears ring - note to self: don't forget the muffling spell again in your anger - before everything turns black and he sinks into merciful oblivion. Only to almost straight away be torn from the darkness by a bitter taste on his tongue that makes him gag convulsively.

"Sorry, but you won't get away so easily this time. How stupid of me not to think of it earlier. Botany has never been my favourite subject, however, it has its uses. Enhanced with a nice little spell, a few drops of this potion could almost wake up the dead." The sorceress is holding a small glass phial filled with a blackish fluid to Cahir's face. He stares at it bleary-eyed.

"One more chance to stop it all. I know you are close to breaking point. There is just so much a human can take. You have lasted much longer than anybody could possibly expect of a mere mortal. It's time to give in, Cahir, trust me." Tissaia's voice sounds almost motherly, like she truly has his best interests at heart. Maybe she has, after all, she is not cruel by nature. And, for a split second, it looks to the sorceress as if the prisoner wants to say something, but he only swallows. Then he closes his eyes and shakes his head defiantly.

"How can one single man be so stubborn?" Tissaia sighs, exasperated. Well, she has tried. It is not her fault if the Nilfgaardian ends up a blithering nutcase after she is done with him. She steps behind the chair again, mumbles the muffling spell and resumes her grip on the prisoner's temples. As the previous full-force onslaughts of magic have not yielded any results, she decides to take it more slowly this time. Once again, she directs her chaos at the man chained to the chair, her fingers channeling it into ten tendrils of pulsating magic that bore themselves into the screaming Nilfgaardian's mind like shipworms into wood. Deeper and deeper. Thanks to the spell it is quite easy to ignore the prisoner's muffled screams, to keep her focus. The familiar flurry of blurred images. Darn. Perhaps the images will slow down if she does? Tissaia concentrates hard to form her magic into something thin, needle-like that she, very slowly and carefully, inserts into the man's brain in her imagination. One after the other. It takes time, lots of focus, and makes her feel like a surgeon performing a very complicated operation, or a seamstress working on the most delicate of fabrics. The Nilfgaardian is screaming without making a sound now, like frozen in time. Maybe they are frozen in time? Suddenly there is minute shift in the flashing-by images, a glitch in the fast-moving matrix. The sorceress catches a glimpse of places, faces, scraps of conversation. Nothing useful, but she seems to be on the right track. If she can sustain her concentration long enough to insert ever more needles of chaos, she will be able to eventually crack the magical barrier, Tissaia is sure of it. And then all the prisoner's memories will be laid bare before her to peruse as she likes. Vilgefortz will be so impressed at her success. Smiling to herself, Tissaia gathers even more chaos into the thinnest of needles imaginable to perforate the barrier in the Nilfgaardian's mind. The speed of the images decelerates. One stops long enough for Tissaia to recognise Fringilla. She is talking to Cahir and another soldier in a tent, promising to personally deplete their foes with forbidden magic until they are empty and powerless. The eve of their attack on Sodden Hill. She is so close. Just a few more needles, then she will know where Yennefer is. However, it becomes more and more difficult to hold her focus as Cahir has started to shake so violently, clearly on the verge of a full-blown seizure, she is afraid she might lose her grip. He is not only bleeding from his ears and nose now, but also from his eyes. As is she, Tissaia suddenly realises with consternation. She needs to finish this, and quickly. In her imagination she conjures up a whole score of magical needles and sinks them into the Nilfgaardian's mind, all at the same time. With all her force.

The effect is staggering, just not in the wished-for way. An explosion of lights, sounds and agony hits Tissaia like a savage punch to the head and she is blasted away from the prisoner with force. Stunned, in pain and gasping for breath, she crumples to the ground in an undignified heap. It takes several minutes until she slowly recovers from the magical shock. She pulls Vilgefortz's handkerchief from her pocket and wipes the blood off her eyes and nose before she gingerly tries to stand. Whatever this barrier is, it seems to have a very effective way of protecting itself from being broken. She has never heard of anything like it before. Extremely advanced magic, no doubt, or very ancient and forgotten one. Who could possibly have placed it in Cahir's brain? Not Fringilla, she has always been mediocre at best, it is totally impossible that she could perform powerful magic like this, or is it?

When Tissaia feels steady enough on her legs again to take a step, she walks over to the heavily breathing prisoner. He is still seizing, his eyes rolled backward in their sockets, his head hitting against the backrest of the stone chair again and again in the throes of the convulsive fit. In addition to the blood dripping from his nose, ears and eyes, he is frothing from the mouth. This is not looking good. Tissaia wonders for a fleeting moment if he even knows that some very powerful mage has tempered with his mind. Probably not. Well, it makes no difference. It is more than clear now that they will not get any information from the Nilfgaardian. A dead end. Well, not quite dead yet, but surely bound to die in the not far away future, either from some illness contracted in the dungeons or by the executioner's axe. Perhaps it would be most humane to just let the man drown on his own saliva here and now while he is unconscious? However, Vilgefortz will surely not like it if she lets it happen. He has mentioned something about plans for a public execution. As a display of strength. Tissaia breathes a heavy sigh. With the bloodied handkerchief she wipes the prisoner's foaming mouth while firmly pressing his head to the stone backrest with her other hand so he would not further hurt himself. Luckily, he stills after a minute or two. Tissaia sighs again. She needs some fresh air and a cup of tea. With a dash of brandy. Or a brandy with a dash of tea? A plain brandy? No, better make it two. And before noon, this is definitely a novelty. So much so for a delightful day. And all for nothing. Not the faintest of hints as to what has happened to Yennefer. If she were more like her purple-eyed friend, Tissaia would swear like a sailor from utter frustration and slam the door with a loud bang. But she is not. She is Tissaia de Vries, Headmistress of Aretuza, she does not swear or slam doors. She straightens out the sleeves of her dress instead and, without looking back, she exits the dreadful place, closing the door behind her quietly. The servants can take care of the unconscious prisoner.

And, for the first time in the several hundred years of her life, Tissaia de Vries has two glasses of plain brandy before the bell in the Aretuza bell tower has tolled twelve. Then she changes into a fresh dress, does her hair and gets ready for more work. After all, as the Headmistress of the most renowned school of magic, she is a busy woman. And only cruel when she absolutely has to be.