alcala0001
06-01-2011, 02:40 PM
This is my first honest attempt at a post in several months. I hope it entertains.
I instinctively cover my nose with my stuffed handkerchief, cleverly filled with spices and perfumes - a trick I had learned from one or other of the minor nobility that have been known to procure my services - I forget which - after a while all of those overblown peacocks begin to look the same anyway. This is no sprawling estate that I am on my way to, and these are no scenic country back roads I am taking to get there. No. This is the city. The cobbles under the coach wheels send every jolt through my bad hip, and the smell of sewage and rot in the air is enough to make one's eyes weep, if not accustomed. Pouring rains would be welcome now. The gutters are in bad need of a cleansing deluge.
I am pulled from my thoughts as the fort comes into view. It's not meant to look imposing, being a functional fortification. But it does indeed look resilient. The thick, tapering walls and the lack of windows make it look solid and substantial. The closed gun ports are menacing enough, for I have learned that it's what one conceals that's more terrifying than what one reveals, as this night will soon prove. The gates open at our arrival, giving us just enough room and space to pass through without losing speed, before closing shut at our passing. No doubt dozens of cadets are scrabbling to make ready for us.
The fort looks much larger from inside the courtyard. Rows of cannons ring the yard behind each set of tightly shuttered gun ports. stacks of cannon shot are set precisely next to each. A man in crisp uniform approaches, his rank indicates him a lieutenant. The coach sways as the driver scrambles down from atop his perch to open the door. A soft squeak as the stairs unfold, then the click of the latch as the door opens, letting in the sun and a crisp breeze. The air is much fresher here. The river on the other side of the walls, and perhaps the high walls themselves, do much to keep the stench of the city at bay. "Monsieur Gaudet. Welcome to The Stone, I am Lieutenant Marveau. I trust your journey was pleasant?" I wave the Lieutenant's pleasantries aside with my handkerchief and I take the driver's rough, leathery hand as I descend the stairs. My walking stick touches the cobbles and The Lieutenant straightens and swallows the rest of his formalities as he sees the wolf's head carved into the ebony handle, it's ruby eyes twinkling in the fading light.
"The Wolf". That's the nickname that stuck. And I have used it to my advantage. Nikolas emerges behind me and the coach groans as he steps onto the courtyard. Well over six feet tall and with a face that seems carved from stone into a permanent scowl, his mere presence is an asset during these... proceedings. As if eager to be rid of us, the Lieutenant leads us at a brisk march up the stairs and into the main keep. Bolts are thrown and metal groans as the heavy doors swing outward for us. Guards in dress uniform salute our entrance, hands on swords, eyes looking forward underneath plumed hats. Despite their stoic expressions, I can sense the fear wafting off of them as we approach, and their relief at our passing is almost tangible. Smooth stone floors and stout wooden furniture adorn the interior. Lamps cast a soft glow and long, deep shadows across the high ceilings and arched doorways. Our footsteps echo down the corridors as we are led into the bowels of The Stone.
At last, through many halls and locked doors we arrive at the holding cells. The stench here is even worse than it was on the ride through the city. I pay it no mind. I ceased being 'Monsieur Gaudet' at the gate - All that remains now is The Wolf. My leg is on fire from the journey and the walk down into the lower depths of The Stone, but even my injuries inspire fear. There are many rumors surrounding my infirm leg. That I was attacked by a pack of wolves and killed them all with a stick - the very one I carry. That I was hit by a cannonball and survived - and in fact my leg is made of wood and iron. That I was shot a dozen times on the battlefield and refused to die. What would they think if they knew the truth? That my injury was the result of falling off a horse during a fox hunt? But no. I learned long ago that perception is the most powerful tool for building a reputation. The less that is said, the better. Nothing strikes more fear into a man's heart than his own imagination.
The jailer emerges, a grizzled bear of a man, his age indeterminate by years of hard drink. The large ring of keys rattles in his hands as he unlocks a cell. "Monsieur Wolf. You could have waited for me to bring him up to you." He waits for me to reply, but when I do not, he grunts as he opens the cell. A few choice words from the jailer, followed by a few hard, meaty slaps and he emerges with the prisoner in tow. He's in a bad shape. Bruises cover most of his body and his shaved head is covered in welts. A film of sweat covers him and he smells of curdled milk and body odor. But his eyes, a pale shade of blue, show defiance and rage. Good. He is unbroken. He eyes me up and down, scoffing at my black attire, then his eyes rest upon Nikolas as he is dragged past us and hauled up the stairs.
We arrive in the interrogation chamber, as it were. A small room with a large, heavy, rough-hewn table pitted with decades of wear. Chairs were brought in - thankfully - a large and comfortable leather chair for me, no doubt given up by an officer. I'm sure there will be much bragging over a chair that The Wolf sat in. The prisoner, one Marcus Desmarais, remains silent throughout our preparations. I have requested four guards be posted outside instead of the usual two. This is not for security, but because I want there to be rumors spread about tonight. I want the legend of The Wolf to remain strong, and four tongues wagging is better than two. Also, I requested 'a young man of strong constitution' to assist me in my interrogation. What they sent me was a husky young man, Cadet Ducharm, who would, under normal circumstances, seem very intimidating. However, here in this small room, he appears to be on the verge of pissing himself. And of course, Nikolas is towering behind me and to the side, standing silently, still as stone, wearing his heavy, stained and scarred leather apron and a white cotton undershirt that gleams in stark contrast. His ominous bag of 'tools' is at his feet.
I have before me three stacks of vellum and my writing kit. Everything that proceeds must be transcribed in triplicate, and I prefer to do it all myself. This also allows me to take my time. Time itself can be a very persuasive interrogation tool, grinding slowly on one's nerves with each passing second. Monsieur Demarais watches our preparations in silence, his eyes defiant, his hands resting on his knees, the manacle chains bowing between his legs, but the tension in his posture is obvious to my trained eye. Cadet Ducharm stands nervously with his back to the thick wooden door. No doubt he is wanting to be someplace else at this moment. Not me. Not The Wolf. Here, I am in my element. The aura of imposing power that I exude is visible in the eyes of everybody present. My voice is soft and even, even polite as I address the prisoner "Monsieur Demarais, are you comfortable? Is there anything that I can get for you?". Nothing. Those steely blue eyes.
Time to get to work. "Monsieur Demarais, are you aware of who I am?" There is no answer. "I am the one they call when all else fails. I am, unfortunately, the last resort." That look of defiance. Oh, he's a proud one, all right! "You see, Monsieur Desmarais, you have been accused of murder, and normally you would have been dispatched to the firing squad or the hangman already. Evidence was found on your person, as well as several witnesses that can identify you as one of the murderers. The problem, Monsieur Desmarais, is that you were not working alone. Why protect these men, who would gladly see you put to death while they remain safe?" The set of his chin, the contempt on his scowl. If he has heard of me, by reputation or name, it does not show. He does not seem to be impressed. "Before I begin, I will offer you the opportunity to tell me everything." Silence. Defiance. "No? Very well, Monsieur Desmarais."
"Nikolas." I speak the name softly and the my large assistant comes to life, like a large stone golem that has been infused with life at the command of some magic word. In one stride he is at the table. It happens so fast, the other man cannot react. Nikolas reaches over the table, grabbing his manacles. By the time Marcus can make a noise, he is spread across the table top, chains held tight in Nikolas's strong grip. He struggles, but he might as well be a small child. Nikolas reaches back into his bag and comes out with a hammer and an iron spike. Marcus's eyes open in terror, the they turn to me, imploring. The iron spike is misshapen, dented from many hammer strikes, but crudely sharpened. Nikolas puts the spike to Marcus's cheek, dragging it down his neck, his arm, his hand, leaving a red welt from the sharp iron tip. Marcus buries his head in the table top and tenses up. I glance to the door and Cadet Ducharm is as white as a sheet. The hammer arcs down and Nikolas lets out a bellow, more of a low rumble, actually. The iron spike is driven home, nailing Marcus's manacle chain into the table top with a shriek as the dense oak begrudgingly gives way to brute steel. Marcus and Cadet Ducharm both jump at the impact, as do my writing utensils. My ink, however, remains in the bottle.
Marcus looks up to see his chains nailed firmly. He glances at me, his eyes still defiant, but the fear is much more pronounced. "Cadet Ducharm, I believe you have been instructed to procure the items I requested?" The Cadet manages a salute, then bangs on the door. A guard opens up, taking a brief but thorough look inside, his eyes lingering on Marcus's prostrate body. The Cadet almost trips over his feet trying to leave the room. The door slams shut behind him. Now we are alone. I lean down close and run my fingers over his cheek. He flinches at my touch. "Marcus, Marcus, Marcus..." I breathe in his ear, slapping his cheek firmly with each calling of his name. "No doubt you are wondering, so I shall oblige you. The Cadet is off to get me my rats. I saw the little bodies littering the outside of your cell. It seems you are not fond of rats, and I apologize for this. But you see, Marcus, you are a hard man. And hard men require hard measures." Marcus tenses at the mention of rats. Good.
"As a younger man, I spent some months in the far east, as a guest of the Sultan in Constantinople. He would often entertain us by bringing his torturer into the cells to work while we watched. This particular method was used on many of my comrades with great success. It was, however, not one hundred percent effective, as is evidenced by my presence here today. While it did a magnificent job of getting one to talk, it was not quite brutal enough to make the information accurate. My soldiers were able to hide my identity, although they did seem to divulge everything else. It seems they feared me more than the torturer." My laughter seems to be having an effect on him. "You see, Marcus, as you may know, rats have the ability to enter through the tiniest of openings. What the torturer would do was insert a brass 'trumpet' of sorts, into the anus of his victims. The problem, of course, is the cooperation on the part of the rat. Quite often, the rat would refuse to enter the body of the prisoner, and who could blame it? But, often times just having a trumpet with a rat shoved in ones rectum was enough to make men talk. This is where I have improved upon the Sultan's favorite method. A screen is inserted into the trumpet after the rat is thrown in. then hot coals are put on the screen to encourage the rat to burrow." More laughter on my part, and he is beginning to crack.
"I'm sure I do not have to tell you how rats love to nibble, but you have never seen a rat chew and claw when hot coals are involved! Thankfully the method is slow. It's not the fear of death that makes one talk. No, Marcus. Do you know what makes men talk? It's the offer of a swift death. Apparently, having rats chew on your insides is very unpleasant and unsettling. And those who talk are rewarded." Terror. Pure, desperate terror is starting to settle into him. I think he's ready. "Nikolas, I don't believe Marcus wants to tell us anything." I say with a sad, weary sigh. "Oh, Marcus, on an interesting side note, The Count La Rousse, who is quite mad, has a fascination with rats. I have asked him to breed me a large and aggressive variety for my purposes. I think you'll be quite impressed! Nikolas! Get the trumpet!" "WAIT! MONSIEUR WOLF!" He cries out, tears making clean tracks down his face, dripping onto the scarred wood table. "Yes, Marcus?" A knock at the door and Marcus's eyes are rolling in his head like a frightened horse. "Please! I'll tell you everything!" Oh, I think he will. "Oh Marcus, have some dignity. They are waiting outside with my precious rats." I pause for a moment. The Cadet would not dare to open the door without my permission. A second knock, this one softer, unsure. "PLEASE, CADET! GIVE US A MOMENT!"
"Very well, Marcus. But be warned. I have two trumpets and two rats, so unless you want to spend the night with a trumpet in each end and the male and female fornicating in your belly, you had better tell me EVERYTHING!" I hiss, sounding as menacing as possible. "Oh, I will, Monsieur Wolf!" Well, that didn't take long. I give him a satisfied nod. "Very well, Monsieur Desmarais." I sit up and knock on the door. The guards step back as I exit the room. I enter a moment later with three goblets of wine, the door closes behind me. "Nikolas" Monsieur Desmarais flinches as Nikolas grabs his chains and wrenches the spike out of the wood, the table giving it up grudgingly. Spike in hand, Nikolas settles back into the corner with a goblet of wine. The other goblets I place before myself and Monsieur Desmarais. He seems to be a much different man now. Likeable, even. He is eager to share everything he knows. Outside the room my dinner is no doubt getting cold. Hopefully the Cadet managed not to screw up my food. I begin to write in triplicate as Monsieur Desmarais begins to talk in detail.
I instinctively cover my nose with my stuffed handkerchief, cleverly filled with spices and perfumes - a trick I had learned from one or other of the minor nobility that have been known to procure my services - I forget which - after a while all of those overblown peacocks begin to look the same anyway. This is no sprawling estate that I am on my way to, and these are no scenic country back roads I am taking to get there. No. This is the city. The cobbles under the coach wheels send every jolt through my bad hip, and the smell of sewage and rot in the air is enough to make one's eyes weep, if not accustomed. Pouring rains would be welcome now. The gutters are in bad need of a cleansing deluge.
I am pulled from my thoughts as the fort comes into view. It's not meant to look imposing, being a functional fortification. But it does indeed look resilient. The thick, tapering walls and the lack of windows make it look solid and substantial. The closed gun ports are menacing enough, for I have learned that it's what one conceals that's more terrifying than what one reveals, as this night will soon prove. The gates open at our arrival, giving us just enough room and space to pass through without losing speed, before closing shut at our passing. No doubt dozens of cadets are scrabbling to make ready for us.
The fort looks much larger from inside the courtyard. Rows of cannons ring the yard behind each set of tightly shuttered gun ports. stacks of cannon shot are set precisely next to each. A man in crisp uniform approaches, his rank indicates him a lieutenant. The coach sways as the driver scrambles down from atop his perch to open the door. A soft squeak as the stairs unfold, then the click of the latch as the door opens, letting in the sun and a crisp breeze. The air is much fresher here. The river on the other side of the walls, and perhaps the high walls themselves, do much to keep the stench of the city at bay. "Monsieur Gaudet. Welcome to The Stone, I am Lieutenant Marveau. I trust your journey was pleasant?" I wave the Lieutenant's pleasantries aside with my handkerchief and I take the driver's rough, leathery hand as I descend the stairs. My walking stick touches the cobbles and The Lieutenant straightens and swallows the rest of his formalities as he sees the wolf's head carved into the ebony handle, it's ruby eyes twinkling in the fading light.
"The Wolf". That's the nickname that stuck. And I have used it to my advantage. Nikolas emerges behind me and the coach groans as he steps onto the courtyard. Well over six feet tall and with a face that seems carved from stone into a permanent scowl, his mere presence is an asset during these... proceedings. As if eager to be rid of us, the Lieutenant leads us at a brisk march up the stairs and into the main keep. Bolts are thrown and metal groans as the heavy doors swing outward for us. Guards in dress uniform salute our entrance, hands on swords, eyes looking forward underneath plumed hats. Despite their stoic expressions, I can sense the fear wafting off of them as we approach, and their relief at our passing is almost tangible. Smooth stone floors and stout wooden furniture adorn the interior. Lamps cast a soft glow and long, deep shadows across the high ceilings and arched doorways. Our footsteps echo down the corridors as we are led into the bowels of The Stone.
At last, through many halls and locked doors we arrive at the holding cells. The stench here is even worse than it was on the ride through the city. I pay it no mind. I ceased being 'Monsieur Gaudet' at the gate - All that remains now is The Wolf. My leg is on fire from the journey and the walk down into the lower depths of The Stone, but even my injuries inspire fear. There are many rumors surrounding my infirm leg. That I was attacked by a pack of wolves and killed them all with a stick - the very one I carry. That I was hit by a cannonball and survived - and in fact my leg is made of wood and iron. That I was shot a dozen times on the battlefield and refused to die. What would they think if they knew the truth? That my injury was the result of falling off a horse during a fox hunt? But no. I learned long ago that perception is the most powerful tool for building a reputation. The less that is said, the better. Nothing strikes more fear into a man's heart than his own imagination.
The jailer emerges, a grizzled bear of a man, his age indeterminate by years of hard drink. The large ring of keys rattles in his hands as he unlocks a cell. "Monsieur Wolf. You could have waited for me to bring him up to you." He waits for me to reply, but when I do not, he grunts as he opens the cell. A few choice words from the jailer, followed by a few hard, meaty slaps and he emerges with the prisoner in tow. He's in a bad shape. Bruises cover most of his body and his shaved head is covered in welts. A film of sweat covers him and he smells of curdled milk and body odor. But his eyes, a pale shade of blue, show defiance and rage. Good. He is unbroken. He eyes me up and down, scoffing at my black attire, then his eyes rest upon Nikolas as he is dragged past us and hauled up the stairs.
We arrive in the interrogation chamber, as it were. A small room with a large, heavy, rough-hewn table pitted with decades of wear. Chairs were brought in - thankfully - a large and comfortable leather chair for me, no doubt given up by an officer. I'm sure there will be much bragging over a chair that The Wolf sat in. The prisoner, one Marcus Desmarais, remains silent throughout our preparations. I have requested four guards be posted outside instead of the usual two. This is not for security, but because I want there to be rumors spread about tonight. I want the legend of The Wolf to remain strong, and four tongues wagging is better than two. Also, I requested 'a young man of strong constitution' to assist me in my interrogation. What they sent me was a husky young man, Cadet Ducharm, who would, under normal circumstances, seem very intimidating. However, here in this small room, he appears to be on the verge of pissing himself. And of course, Nikolas is towering behind me and to the side, standing silently, still as stone, wearing his heavy, stained and scarred leather apron and a white cotton undershirt that gleams in stark contrast. His ominous bag of 'tools' is at his feet.
I have before me three stacks of vellum and my writing kit. Everything that proceeds must be transcribed in triplicate, and I prefer to do it all myself. This also allows me to take my time. Time itself can be a very persuasive interrogation tool, grinding slowly on one's nerves with each passing second. Monsieur Demarais watches our preparations in silence, his eyes defiant, his hands resting on his knees, the manacle chains bowing between his legs, but the tension in his posture is obvious to my trained eye. Cadet Ducharm stands nervously with his back to the thick wooden door. No doubt he is wanting to be someplace else at this moment. Not me. Not The Wolf. Here, I am in my element. The aura of imposing power that I exude is visible in the eyes of everybody present. My voice is soft and even, even polite as I address the prisoner "Monsieur Demarais, are you comfortable? Is there anything that I can get for you?". Nothing. Those steely blue eyes.
Time to get to work. "Monsieur Demarais, are you aware of who I am?" There is no answer. "I am the one they call when all else fails. I am, unfortunately, the last resort." That look of defiance. Oh, he's a proud one, all right! "You see, Monsieur Desmarais, you have been accused of murder, and normally you would have been dispatched to the firing squad or the hangman already. Evidence was found on your person, as well as several witnesses that can identify you as one of the murderers. The problem, Monsieur Desmarais, is that you were not working alone. Why protect these men, who would gladly see you put to death while they remain safe?" The set of his chin, the contempt on his scowl. If he has heard of me, by reputation or name, it does not show. He does not seem to be impressed. "Before I begin, I will offer you the opportunity to tell me everything." Silence. Defiance. "No? Very well, Monsieur Desmarais."
"Nikolas." I speak the name softly and the my large assistant comes to life, like a large stone golem that has been infused with life at the command of some magic word. In one stride he is at the table. It happens so fast, the other man cannot react. Nikolas reaches over the table, grabbing his manacles. By the time Marcus can make a noise, he is spread across the table top, chains held tight in Nikolas's strong grip. He struggles, but he might as well be a small child. Nikolas reaches back into his bag and comes out with a hammer and an iron spike. Marcus's eyes open in terror, the they turn to me, imploring. The iron spike is misshapen, dented from many hammer strikes, but crudely sharpened. Nikolas puts the spike to Marcus's cheek, dragging it down his neck, his arm, his hand, leaving a red welt from the sharp iron tip. Marcus buries his head in the table top and tenses up. I glance to the door and Cadet Ducharm is as white as a sheet. The hammer arcs down and Nikolas lets out a bellow, more of a low rumble, actually. The iron spike is driven home, nailing Marcus's manacle chain into the table top with a shriek as the dense oak begrudgingly gives way to brute steel. Marcus and Cadet Ducharm both jump at the impact, as do my writing utensils. My ink, however, remains in the bottle.
Marcus looks up to see his chains nailed firmly. He glances at me, his eyes still defiant, but the fear is much more pronounced. "Cadet Ducharm, I believe you have been instructed to procure the items I requested?" The Cadet manages a salute, then bangs on the door. A guard opens up, taking a brief but thorough look inside, his eyes lingering on Marcus's prostrate body. The Cadet almost trips over his feet trying to leave the room. The door slams shut behind him. Now we are alone. I lean down close and run my fingers over his cheek. He flinches at my touch. "Marcus, Marcus, Marcus..." I breathe in his ear, slapping his cheek firmly with each calling of his name. "No doubt you are wondering, so I shall oblige you. The Cadet is off to get me my rats. I saw the little bodies littering the outside of your cell. It seems you are not fond of rats, and I apologize for this. But you see, Marcus, you are a hard man. And hard men require hard measures." Marcus tenses at the mention of rats. Good.
"As a younger man, I spent some months in the far east, as a guest of the Sultan in Constantinople. He would often entertain us by bringing his torturer into the cells to work while we watched. This particular method was used on many of my comrades with great success. It was, however, not one hundred percent effective, as is evidenced by my presence here today. While it did a magnificent job of getting one to talk, it was not quite brutal enough to make the information accurate. My soldiers were able to hide my identity, although they did seem to divulge everything else. It seems they feared me more than the torturer." My laughter seems to be having an effect on him. "You see, Marcus, as you may know, rats have the ability to enter through the tiniest of openings. What the torturer would do was insert a brass 'trumpet' of sorts, into the anus of his victims. The problem, of course, is the cooperation on the part of the rat. Quite often, the rat would refuse to enter the body of the prisoner, and who could blame it? But, often times just having a trumpet with a rat shoved in ones rectum was enough to make men talk. This is where I have improved upon the Sultan's favorite method. A screen is inserted into the trumpet after the rat is thrown in. then hot coals are put on the screen to encourage the rat to burrow." More laughter on my part, and he is beginning to crack.
"I'm sure I do not have to tell you how rats love to nibble, but you have never seen a rat chew and claw when hot coals are involved! Thankfully the method is slow. It's not the fear of death that makes one talk. No, Marcus. Do you know what makes men talk? It's the offer of a swift death. Apparently, having rats chew on your insides is very unpleasant and unsettling. And those who talk are rewarded." Terror. Pure, desperate terror is starting to settle into him. I think he's ready. "Nikolas, I don't believe Marcus wants to tell us anything." I say with a sad, weary sigh. "Oh, Marcus, on an interesting side note, The Count La Rousse, who is quite mad, has a fascination with rats. I have asked him to breed me a large and aggressive variety for my purposes. I think you'll be quite impressed! Nikolas! Get the trumpet!" "WAIT! MONSIEUR WOLF!" He cries out, tears making clean tracks down his face, dripping onto the scarred wood table. "Yes, Marcus?" A knock at the door and Marcus's eyes are rolling in his head like a frightened horse. "Please! I'll tell you everything!" Oh, I think he will. "Oh Marcus, have some dignity. They are waiting outside with my precious rats." I pause for a moment. The Cadet would not dare to open the door without my permission. A second knock, this one softer, unsure. "PLEASE, CADET! GIVE US A MOMENT!"
"Very well, Marcus. But be warned. I have two trumpets and two rats, so unless you want to spend the night with a trumpet in each end and the male and female fornicating in your belly, you had better tell me EVERYTHING!" I hiss, sounding as menacing as possible. "Oh, I will, Monsieur Wolf!" Well, that didn't take long. I give him a satisfied nod. "Very well, Monsieur Desmarais." I sit up and knock on the door. The guards step back as I exit the room. I enter a moment later with three goblets of wine, the door closes behind me. "Nikolas" Monsieur Desmarais flinches as Nikolas grabs his chains and wrenches the spike out of the wood, the table giving it up grudgingly. Spike in hand, Nikolas settles back into the corner with a goblet of wine. The other goblets I place before myself and Monsieur Desmarais. He seems to be a much different man now. Likeable, even. He is eager to share everything he knows. Outside the room my dinner is no doubt getting cold. Hopefully the Cadet managed not to screw up my food. I begin to write in triplicate as Monsieur Desmarais begins to talk in detail.