Icarus's blog: "Augurs, Martyrs, and Agnostics"

Every Hero (Part 2.3)

    Davretor woke up with blackness and peace interrupted with throbbing ache of reality, and words.
    Stones. Sconces. Dancing torchlight. And men in robes lifted on high sitting amid a forest of deific podiums, looking down their austere and scornful noses at the huddled, nearly naked and restrained mercenary. Heavily armored men driving spear butts into his limbs with their full weight. Thick, tight manacles that- burned a dull discomfort into his wrists ankles and neck in a web of iron.
    Only a dozen? More if they could fit more around him.
    Through the forest of spears and armored boots Davretor made out a gilded mask studying his face. An executioner?
    "What we have here gentlemen, is quite vexing- before you is something that is neither demon nor man, yet-" the mask turned to address the court. Echoing slightly behind ivy patterned gold over silver.
    Executioners don't talk. And they certainly can't afford something so beautiful, if not a bit gaudy and overstated.
    This was some kind of specialist... a witch doctor, or ... inquisitor? Davretor had heard rumor of such men. Red robed anonymous charlatans of this land, claiming to comprehend the unthinkable and persecuting the mysterious.
    "In all my years of study, I have never seen such a duality of opposing natures, I'm deeply disturbed by even the possibility of such a thing- we know the demons claw at the edges of our mind, and the named ones have even been seen among the living during great cataclysm- the deepest and most lamentable aspects of our nature creating only brief windows where they can feed upon our sin!"
    Years of study, that's a laugh, these men were inclined to burn what they were not willing to challenge or understand. Makes greater and more intimate study a bit... impossible. Davretor rolled his shoulder in an effort to keep tracking the inquisitor- but a firm spear butt drove him back down.
    "But for a man! A living, walking, bleeding man to keep one sustained and within his body! And for this long?"
    That pain... that pain was back, with desperation and a driving purpose in his skull.
    "WHAT!?" Davretor was more shocked at the fact than the implication. That's what he had become?
    Every spear had more force leaned into it as Davretor began to thrash where he could.
    "What's happened to me! What is this! Why am I like this!!!"
    "The suspect will be silent." Said the particularly venerable grumpy old man at the center stand.
    "He's obvioulsy trying to allay our suspicions with this transparent outraged defense- he knows full well what he harbors. The darkness in his heart is a willing host for his-" The masked inquisitor chuckled at his own pun "inner demon."
    Davretor had driven his knees as hard as he could into the stone floor, the spears were being pushed away, and he was making his way upright. Several spears pulled back and were replaced with points prodding against his skin. There was a great clatter of settling metal and blade against his vitals several scrapes and cuts digging trickles of blood out of his body. Davretor gave a quick survey of the room and guards- dozens of guards were filing in from all sides, the forest of steel had sprouted into a staggered half sphere of tower shields and glittering barbs, blacking out the proceedings.
    "The suspect will stand down and resist any further outbursts or protests out of turn" came the same grumpy voice slightly muffled behind the guards.
    "If I get a turn" Davretor muttered, the spear closest to his face inched nearer to his cheek as a reminder of his orders.
    The mask's voice reverberated behind the metal.
    "My recommendation is that the subject remains under heavy guard around the clock, a joint security detail of my attendants and yours, until my colleagues arrive for further inspection-
    "why not lop of its head, burn the body and bury the ashes under a cathedral and be done with it?" came a new voice, no doubt an official or lord behind the podiums.
    "We may only provoke it by killing the host, we should confirm this before taking action" the inquisitor replied.
    Davretor would have hung his head in defeat, if not for the tight prison of sharp steel against his body. He was to be executed, dissected, burned and purged for his crimes. Crimes that had driven him, sustained him like a quenched thirst, or warm hearth-bread after march and starvation.
    "I had to..." his faint, waivering voice shuddered from the tips of his lips. Hot tears plinking against steel. That's all he knew.
    He had to.
    For despair's sake... a despair not unlike the one spiraling within his heart now, funneling into the wicked force he held host to.