Post by Sir Saul Apollius on Jul 27, 2009 3:34:07 GMT -6
Saul stirred, feeling a stretching pain upon each wrist and the continuous ache within his arms. He opened his eyes to find he'd been stripped of his gear, and all that remain was the dirty regalia he'd had on during his attempted escape. His head sagged and his hair hung over his face which was dampened by the sweat that formed. He could hear voices above, and further down the way in the rooms that lay out of eye sight. He took in a breath of stale, warm air, sighing heavily as the events from the past evening replayed in his head. He thought of Morrigan, he thought of Claramae and Michael. So many faces bled together, everything.. bled together.
Saul heard a door open. It had to of been somewhere further down the corridor because the sound was muffled, even with steel bars for walls.He adjusted uncomfortably, glancing up to his chaffed wrists that remain locked up by the manacles chained to the wall. He felt the cramp take hold of the space between his neck and spine, and he sighed with a pained expression. It dawned on him his face had still been leaking blood. He focused his gaze toward the ground at his booted feet. He saw a pool of his own blood. Some of it had dried and stained the wooden deck. Others were still damp as salt water rocked from side to side with the motions of the boat. Gods, it was so hot, he thought. He felt weak. He was sure that he looked the sight of some pitiful wretch on the last strings of life. He heard footsteps.
Saul's eyes had already been adjusted to the darkness that surrounded his lonely cage. It was when a lit lantern was held up in front of his cell, he closed his eyes in pain. They adjusted to see that two men had stepped into his cell. He felt the heat of the lantern by his face and the feel of a calloused hand take his chin and tilt his head up. His hair, soaked with sweat, blood, and water caked to the sides of his face, but it wasn't an obstacle for the two that inspected him. His eyes cracked open again, and he saw the man looking right at him. ``He's awake.`` The man said, slapping Saul's right cheek to bring him to full consciousness. He cursed. Again, his chin was lifted up, and from what Saul could see, a Nobleman was looking at him. ``It is him, indeed. The Steward will be pleased. Tell Lord Percival it has been a pleasure doing business with him. His family, including that dark haired Tommasina, will be released.. as promised.``
Percival, that coward. Saul's rage increased as he put a face to the name. The sleek, flawless image of the dark dressed noble entered his mind, and he recalled his battle with him; the battle for Clarent. Percival was beyond Saul's capabilities in fighting. The way he moved, even the way he walked had calculated reasons behind it. Saul could have never been that well trained. Malice was the fluid that ran through that man's veins; blood represented humanity, and Percival didn't bleed. Saul had not been listening to the two men as they discussed business. Percival's name had robbed him of his focus, and made him even more exhausted by drawing Saul's anger. He sighed.
Glancing up, the pair of men were shaking hands and moving out of the room. But Saul was not alone for long because two other men came in to get him off the shackles. His arms fell to his sides. Had the pair of men not been there to catch him, he would've just fallen to the floor. They hefted him up by his arm pits and drug him out. They didn't seem to carry any reserve for the lad, even as they tossed him onto the upper deck. He landed with a loud thud, and rolled onto his back. The sun was WAY brighter than that lantern, and he brought his arms up to shield himself from it. His eyes adjusted again, but his expression was strained, even when he tried to sit up. Around him, men carried on their momentary tasks, while three stood above him and watched. One in particular was watching him intently. ``Put him in the dungeons, Sheriff. He is a rebel, and is to be treated as a rebel. No quarter is ever given to those who deny what is right. Not even royalty.`` He knelt in front of Saul, his gaze meeting the wary Prince's.
The Steward was an ugly man, with dark black hair and a clean shaven face. He was thin, pale, and old with thin fingers that held many lordly rings. He wore clothes that were form fitting, and carried a sword Saul doubted the man could even heft or swing around, probably more for looks. The man in front of Saul sighed with a deep, resonating chuckle. ``You will wish you were dead rebel Prince. But every day, we will keep you alive, only so we can torture you more the next day. You do not know pain, but you will, Prince. You will.`` He shoved Saul back down to the deck, stepped on him and then over him. The Steward's associates did as well, and the two men that had hauled him out of the ship, hoisted him back up again. Saul had only enough time to look up and see the blunt end of a wooden pole. He felt pain for a second, then saw darkness.
Saul heard a door open. It had to of been somewhere further down the corridor because the sound was muffled, even with steel bars for walls.He adjusted uncomfortably, glancing up to his chaffed wrists that remain locked up by the manacles chained to the wall. He felt the cramp take hold of the space between his neck and spine, and he sighed with a pained expression. It dawned on him his face had still been leaking blood. He focused his gaze toward the ground at his booted feet. He saw a pool of his own blood. Some of it had dried and stained the wooden deck. Others were still damp as salt water rocked from side to side with the motions of the boat. Gods, it was so hot, he thought. He felt weak. He was sure that he looked the sight of some pitiful wretch on the last strings of life. He heard footsteps.
Saul's eyes had already been adjusted to the darkness that surrounded his lonely cage. It was when a lit lantern was held up in front of his cell, he closed his eyes in pain. They adjusted to see that two men had stepped into his cell. He felt the heat of the lantern by his face and the feel of a calloused hand take his chin and tilt his head up. His hair, soaked with sweat, blood, and water caked to the sides of his face, but it wasn't an obstacle for the two that inspected him. His eyes cracked open again, and he saw the man looking right at him. ``He's awake.`` The man said, slapping Saul's right cheek to bring him to full consciousness. He cursed. Again, his chin was lifted up, and from what Saul could see, a Nobleman was looking at him. ``It is him, indeed. The Steward will be pleased. Tell Lord Percival it has been a pleasure doing business with him. His family, including that dark haired Tommasina, will be released.. as promised.``
Percival, that coward. Saul's rage increased as he put a face to the name. The sleek, flawless image of the dark dressed noble entered his mind, and he recalled his battle with him; the battle for Clarent. Percival was beyond Saul's capabilities in fighting. The way he moved, even the way he walked had calculated reasons behind it. Saul could have never been that well trained. Malice was the fluid that ran through that man's veins; blood represented humanity, and Percival didn't bleed. Saul had not been listening to the two men as they discussed business. Percival's name had robbed him of his focus, and made him even more exhausted by drawing Saul's anger. He sighed.
Glancing up, the pair of men were shaking hands and moving out of the room. But Saul was not alone for long because two other men came in to get him off the shackles. His arms fell to his sides. Had the pair of men not been there to catch him, he would've just fallen to the floor. They hefted him up by his arm pits and drug him out. They didn't seem to carry any reserve for the lad, even as they tossed him onto the upper deck. He landed with a loud thud, and rolled onto his back. The sun was WAY brighter than that lantern, and he brought his arms up to shield himself from it. His eyes adjusted again, but his expression was strained, even when he tried to sit up. Around him, men carried on their momentary tasks, while three stood above him and watched. One in particular was watching him intently. ``Put him in the dungeons, Sheriff. He is a rebel, and is to be treated as a rebel. No quarter is ever given to those who deny what is right. Not even royalty.`` He knelt in front of Saul, his gaze meeting the wary Prince's.
The Steward was an ugly man, with dark black hair and a clean shaven face. He was thin, pale, and old with thin fingers that held many lordly rings. He wore clothes that were form fitting, and carried a sword Saul doubted the man could even heft or swing around, probably more for looks. The man in front of Saul sighed with a deep, resonating chuckle. ``You will wish you were dead rebel Prince. But every day, we will keep you alive, only so we can torture you more the next day. You do not know pain, but you will, Prince. You will.`` He shoved Saul back down to the deck, stepped on him and then over him. The Steward's associates did as well, and the two men that had hauled him out of the ship, hoisted him back up again. Saul had only enough time to look up and see the blunt end of a wooden pole. He felt pain for a second, then saw darkness.