Private Tales A Warden and Her Sword

[Nicomo]

The Warden Gwyddion’s dungeon, or playpen as it’s known on the streets of Cerak, is decorated with what one might expect. Jars filled with viscous suspensions containing various body parts and organs belonged to several different species lined the shelves. Tomes and scrolls are organized on a nearby bookshelf. Laid on tables are various grotesque looking instruments. In the middle of the room, chained and hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, Nicomo is slumped forward. His knees hover just over the ground. An uncomfortable position that doesn’t allow one a wink of sleep.​

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On a nearby podium is an open book with lengthy notes detailing Nicomo’s condition.​

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…incoherent thoughts and speech patterns…possesses an unhealthy obsession for swords…carries several marks and brands of various slavers of Cerak…wounds rapidly heal and leave no scarring…tolerance for pain is remarkable... subject doesn't cry out or flinch...revives in a short while after death…​

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Off to carry out his duties, Gwyddion left his latest subject alone in the chamber. Nico didn’t know how much time passed and keeps his mind occupied by humming an old nostalgic tune. He can't place where he learned it, but it is a familiar and comforting thing for him in dark times.​

 

[Elide]

Elide had taken her time in inspecting all of the newcomers thoroughly. One at a time. In her own, special way, she liked to do things. The way she would certainly be punished for doing. The other wardens seemed to pay them little mind for the most part, but Elide disagreed with giving them near-free reign of the place. So she had made the decision to visit them. Learn from them. And dispose of them when she was finished.

The bastard werewolf turned out to be just that. Elide was still mulling over ideas of how to punish him for barging into her room and breaking her belongings. For daring to put his hands on her. She was well within her rights as a Warden to execute him where he stood. But there had been another problem.

The vampire. Ancient as her eyes seemed to portray that previously dormant power that had occupied her body. Elide was not sure what to make of him yet. He was wise. Annoyingly so. But he did seem to be the only ally she had among their company. Though, it may have been an effect of her blood. She was still uncertain.

And this one, chained up in the room she had not been permitted to enter. The man who had been moved frequently from place to place, always out of Elide's reach, had been conveniently abandoned by her superior.

Elide's heels clicked on the stony floor. There had been no attempt to dampen the sound with her shadows or act on her assassin's instincts to remain silent. She wanted to be heard as she entered. She did not glance at the man, did not acknowledge him as he hang in silence.

She strode up to the book, fingers tracing along the pages as she scanned for some information. Something to tell her what exactly she was dealing with this one. Her brow raised. He had been a slave here. She wondered to which slaver did he belong. "How in the god's names have you managed to end up back here?" She still refused to look at him.

 

[Nicomo]

Nicomo's absent gaze is trained on the floor in front of where he hung. He continues to hum, unaware of the young Warden's presence. It's a short tune, but he doesn't finish it. His attention returns when she speaks to him.​

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"By ship," he answers simply. He starts to ramble, "The shattered Eye was an ill omen. An unfavorable wind caught our sails and steered us into a storm. Alas, my return was writ upon the stars."​

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He wryly chuckles. Coughs. Dry throat.​

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"Though I've never been in this room before."​

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A pause.​

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"Are you here to do me more harm?"​

 

[Elide]

"Indeed. Unfortunate." She flipped the page. "I am not here to harm you."

Not the truth, but not a lie. What she did would depend on him entirely.

"That tune." She turned her attention on the man, looking him over as if there were something familiar there. Something familiar, yet long forgotten. "You were a slave." A statement, not a question.

"When?"

 

[Nicomo]

No harm. How wonderful. All that pain is so tiring. Nicomo's body would always recover, but his mind is another matter.​

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"Thus my scars," he says plainly. His tone carries neither spite nor malice. It was a simple fact that once he was passed from one master's hand to another.​

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"A lifetime ago."​

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Or several, given how many times he has fallen to what should be an eternity of darkness. Life clings to the man stubbornly.​

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His answer is vague. Nicomo's scrambled mind just couldn't form a definitive answer.​

 

[Elide]

If there were any point to rolling her colorless eyes, Elide would have at the way Nicomo responded to her.

"How long is a lifetime to you?" She spoke to him like he was a child, and she were an adult not cut out for children. She was blunt and irritated. "Do not dance around your answers, please." The final word was delivered through gritted teeth. A word Elide was obviously not used to using.

"I ask because the melody is a familiar one to me. One I have not heard in years." Not since the day she had incinerated the encampment.