Now That You Are Pure 1
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PART 2: NOW THAT YOU ARE PURE
That damn file is back. The sculptor's file, with its horrible serated surfaces, being hammered meticulously into your skull by an invisible hobgoblin. The horse's hooves are echoing this time, and coming from somewhere to your left, making the hammer-beats of incremental pain faster and more erratic. You decide that in this scenario the hobgoblin is drunk.
You wish you were drunk.
Your eyes open to find only swaying shadows, looming disorientingly across your field of vision. You smell straw and horse, hear the creak of wood, the faint clink of ceramic or glass, the rumble of wheels. A cart?
A few experimental actions follow. You turn your head and suffer a sharp jolt of pain for your hubris as you grind your bones against stiffened muscle and tendon. You try to move your arms and cannot. Your legs, the same. Your shoulders respond in a limited fashion. Your tongue refuses to raise to the parched roof of your mouth. You try to speak, and only a slurred mumble emerges.
You hear the ruffle of disturbed fabric and a shaft of sunlight sears your vision. As your eyes adjust to the radiance, you make out the bright face of Brindle.
BRINDLE: "Oh, you're awake, lady. I'll just, er, get the Talonlord." he seems embarassed. "Just, uh, sit tight there."
He looks like he's going to correct himself, but thinks better of it, and ducks out of view.
You have a few moments to yourself. Your spatial reasoning slowly filters through to tell you that this sunlit opening is at the rear of a covered wagon, which means you are leaning against the left part of the front arch. That doesn't explain why you can't move, though. Are you still poisoned?
Poison. The memory hits slowly, like a wave over a long beach. Fincher poisoned you. You're not sure how to feel about that.
You hear footsteps approaching and Fincher enters the rear of the wagon as you are still processing this. She's much the worse for wear, missing her scarlet cloak and splattered with black mud. Looks like the road has been difficult.
You try to greet her, but your tongue once again does not respond. She reaches towards you without a word. You try to pull away, but your unresponsive body just ends up slamming your head against the arch of the wagon.
She removes the cloth gag from your mouth and tosses it aside.
FINCHER: "Afternoon, boss."
"Fincher." The word is a dry croak. "Why was I gagged?"
FINCHER: "Kept shouting unsettling shit while you were asleep. Not the worst of your worries, anyway." She gestures down.
You look down at your legs. Now that the wagon is open to the afternoon sunlight, you can see that they are tied together at the knee and ankle with neatly bound rope. You realize that your arms don't move because they are similarly bound behind your back, around the wagon arch.
"Ah."
FINCHER: "Yeah. Ah."
[ ] Am I a prisoner?
[ ] You need to untie me. I still need to find the secret infiltrator.
[ ] Can you untie me, please? I'm sorry about what happened.
[ ] You look rough.
That damn file is back. The sculptor's file, with its horrible serated surfaces, being hammered meticulously into your skull by an invisible hobgoblin. The horse's hooves are echoing this time, and coming from somewhere to your left, making the hammer-beats of incremental pain faster and more erratic. You decide that in this scenario the hobgoblin is drunk.
You wish you were drunk.
Your eyes open to find only swaying shadows, looming disorientingly across your field of vision. You smell straw and horse, hear the creak of wood, the faint clink of ceramic or glass, the rumble of wheels. A cart?
A few experimental actions follow. You turn your head and suffer a sharp jolt of pain for your hubris as you grind your bones against stiffened muscle and tendon. You try to move your arms and cannot. Your legs, the same. Your shoulders respond in a limited fashion. Your tongue refuses to raise to the parched roof of your mouth. You try to speak, and only a slurred mumble emerges.
You hear the ruffle of disturbed fabric and a shaft of sunlight sears your vision. As your eyes adjust to the radiance, you make out the bright face of Brindle.
BRINDLE: "Oh, you're awake, lady. I'll just, er, get the Talonlord." he seems embarassed. "Just, uh, sit tight there."
He looks like he's going to correct himself, but thinks better of it, and ducks out of view.
You have a few moments to yourself. Your spatial reasoning slowly filters through to tell you that this sunlit opening is at the rear of a covered wagon, which means you are leaning against the left part of the front arch. That doesn't explain why you can't move, though. Are you still poisoned?
Poison. The memory hits slowly, like a wave over a long beach. Fincher poisoned you. You're not sure how to feel about that.
You hear footsteps approaching and Fincher enters the rear of the wagon as you are still processing this. She's much the worse for wear, missing her scarlet cloak and splattered with black mud. Looks like the road has been difficult.
You try to greet her, but your tongue once again does not respond. She reaches towards you without a word. You try to pull away, but your unresponsive body just ends up slamming your head against the arch of the wagon.
She removes the cloth gag from your mouth and tosses it aside.
FINCHER: "Afternoon, boss."
"Fincher." The word is a dry croak. "Why was I gagged?"
FINCHER: "Kept shouting unsettling shit while you were asleep. Not the worst of your worries, anyway." She gestures down.
You look down at your legs. Now that the wagon is open to the afternoon sunlight, you can see that they are tied together at the knee and ankle with neatly bound rope. You realize that your arms don't move because they are similarly bound behind your back, around the wagon arch.
"Ah."
FINCHER: "Yeah. Ah."
[ ] Am I a prisoner?
[ ] You need to untie me. I still need to find the secret infiltrator.
[ ] Can you untie me, please? I'm sorry about what happened.
[ ] You look rough.
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