Tremors [Campaign Fiction]

[Ashnari Doomsong]

Screams. Screams were never far away in the corridors of the Scarred Hand, headquarters of the Cardaith in Caledor. The screams were not the urgent howls of torture, however, nor were they the horrified shrieks of those facing their deaths. No, those who were brought to the Scarred Hand itself were the special prisoners, the most difficult of Chaos cultists found in all of Caledor, for the interrogation techniques employed in this building were not simple torture. The screams echoing through the corridors were the despairing wails of men and women who were lost in utter darkness, whose food was filling but incredibly bland and whose cells were heavily padded. Every effort was made to keep the prisoners' senses completely isolated; only hearing was left to them, so they screamed.

It was a problem, Inspector Trevaj reflected for the seventh time; the gaps that let their screams out also let others' screams in, and that broke the spell of isolation. He was very proud of the cells otherwise. They were his concept, his creation, up to the limited enchantments placed on them - he had some training in manipulating the Wind of Shadows, taught to him as a reward for his devout and stalwart service. Witchsight was among the most useful traits a man in the Inspector's position could possibly have, allowing him to notice even faint traces of enchantment. Incidentally, the Shadow wind allowed him to dampen the sorcerous senses of the more magically inclined prisoners as well as their mundane ones. The entire building was warded, a veritable fortress in the midst of the port of Tor Caralai, guarded by only the most trusted of men; Caledor was among the kingdoms least afflicted by the taint of Chaos worship, but the threat was still significant enough that Trevaj took no risks.

Still the screams went on. One became inured to them quickly, working in the Scarred Hand - it was that, or go mad. Such a waste, though; the prisoners in here were definitely going to break - they always did. Such great people, with such wonderful qualities: They were utterly devoted to keeping the secrets of their fellows, of aiding the whole. It was a twisted thought, but had all of Ulthuan consisted of people like those in Trevaj's cells, his job would have been completely redundant. Destroying them felt wrong, like he was violating something sacred, something precious. But it had to be done; Cults were rampaging throughout the land. Ulthuan teetered on the brink of civil war, and civil war would benefit no-one. Subversive elements must be stamped out, or all the people of the Enchanted Isle would suffer for it.
Trevaj would not let petty gangs and criminal fanatics destabilise his homeland; he had fought in Ulthuan's wars of expansion, battled in its conquests. He refused to give in now, when things were at their most critical.
Of course, it was only a matter of time. Morathi was expanding her influence; the Cults of Slaanesh and Asuryan were more or less openly clashing, and the former was winning out, crushing the Asuryanites at almost every turn. Trevaj had infiltrators and informants within both; men he trusted. He had grounds to believe that Morathi herself was a follower of Slaanesh, along with several extremely prominent figures - but he could not act upon it. Powerful he might be within Caledor, but even the High Prince could not protect him from the political pressure of the Queen Mother and her allies. It was all such a mess.

Investigations were further hampered by the lack of respect the Scarred Hand gained from the landed nobility, all of whom seemed to collectively despise him for being a jumped-up son of a camp follower, and the Prince's pet to boot; in theory, his position was enough to summon any noble in the land short of Lord Imraldar himself. In practise, it was somewhat different; every time he arrested some noble's favourite courtesan or a mistress or trusted servant of some description, all sorts of castle-borne riffraff came wearing down his door. He had been forced to petition for a pair of Black Guard bodyguards to serve as a reminder of who was in charge, and to prevent anyone from actually murdering the Inspector on the job - the Cult had infiltrated deeply, and though Caledor was one of the kingdoms least afflicted, the enemy was still very entrenched. Trevaj looked out of the chamber's small window; it was getting very dark. Soon, he would sleep. But not yet. He still had papers to see to.

The assassin ghosted through a window of the Scarred Hand, the bars weakened by acid. The place was a fortress, but a small one and poorly garrisoned at this time of night. Nobody was really expecting the Cult to openly declare war on the Hand. Well and good, but the Hand had already declared where it stood, at least with the current leadership. No matter; her fellows languished in their cells, and it was up to her and her contacts in here to free them and eliminate the Inspector. The loss of life was regrettable, but necessary; the paradise to come was paramount. A guard staring lazily out of a window, dreaming of somewhere else, was struck down from behind; a stair was descended, quietly. Six men guarded the cells every day. Four of this evening's lot were cultists. The other two were to be subdued and kidnapped; let the remainder think the place was entirely corrupted. They had their orders, however; all she had to do was to give the signal.

Be quiet, that was the thing. She padded lightly through the relentless noise of screams; hoarse throats would be making screaming painful, now, which was helping the prisoners remain whole, their faith put in Slaanesh. The assassin smiled slightly; even here, her brethren were unshakeable. Silent, now. Let her comrades mask her movements; if you were quiet enough, you could afford to be seen; the guard would take it for a movement on the shadow, or a trick of a tired eye. She snuck in down the stairs to the guardhouse; one of the men outside the cell-block itself was a loyalist, whose eyes widened when he saw her. He opened his mouth to shout a warning when his erstwhile comrade landed a powerful blow to the back of his head. Cultist and assassin looked at each other for a moment, then nodded and went to their duty. Silence and speed.

Trevaj looked up; the screams were stopping. They were faint here, in his office, but they were there. He frowned.

The assassin snapped the neck of the Black Guard stationed at the Inspector's door. It caused a loud crack; she let the armoured body tumble to the ground noisily, tore open the door and prepared to dispatch the Inspector himself; this departure from silence had been necessary for overwhelming such a formidable foe without giving his protectee enough warning to properly prepare. Knives were appearing in her hands from her sleeves as she thundered in and was hit hard on the back of the head by something heavy and blunt. As everything went dark, she saw the splinters of a broken chair fall to the ground with her.

It had been the uncomfortable and rickety guest chair; Trevaj's own chair was not for use as some improvised weapon. The Inspector looked down on the unconscious murderess. So.
War it was, then. Somehow, the cessation of the ever-present screams were as much a declaration of it as any band of trumpeteers. He sighed and went to work, pausing to search the assassin thoroughly and then tie her up to his own chair. As he was progressing, it became clear to him that he had seen her before, somewhere, somehow. No matter; he had there were more urgent things to do. He looked down at the guard; the moment of warning had been all he had needed to hide behind the door in his alerted state. He knelt down and closed the elf's still-wide eyes. Then, as he straightened, he picked up his dead bodyguard's halberd and set his back to his labour.

The screams of desperate prisoners had become the groans and mutters of wounded men clinging to life by a thread, sometimes strong and sometimes not; the cultists had escaped, hacking down a good many men in their bunks or as they came to oppose them. It was an unbridled disaster; his most trusted core of watchmen had been thoroughly infiltrated, thoroughly enough that they had managed to get all of the guards on the cells. Seven guardsmen were dead, and a score more wounded, of whom three looked unlikely to make it. Good people, reliable elves and decent watchmen had perished during this escape, and all he was left with was the cetainty that he was still compromised, as well as a single prisoner. Trevaj licked his lips nervously, eaten up by his own gross display of incompetence and overconfidence as much as the cunning of the enemy; he had trusted the guards at the Hand, each one an experienced and dedicated upholder of the law. At least he knew now. He could organise purges, and he could track down the cultists to their source. Screams were going to echo across the Scarred Hand once more.

When he went to sleep that night, he found that he couldn't; the presence of the prisoners had been a not-so-quiet testament to his own skill, his talent and his wit. He had become so used to the screams that there was no way now to sleep without them. He lay awake awhile, pondering his course of action. First, he had to secure the prisoner. He went to her; she was now the only prisoner in the cells, but she hadn't started screaming yet.
There was no time to make her scream now, Trevaj realised. He had to shatter her, and quickly. He sent for certain ointments and sat down.

She really was very beautiful, with rich blonde curls and enchanting eyes. Beyond that, she was not quite muscular enough for it to be off-putting, well-toned and with a certain coquetteish feistiness that elves whose appetites ran towards the feminine would tend to find irresistable. Trevaj's did not, though he knew that if it ever became known he would suffer ridicule if not outright condemnation for it.

She was currently wrapped in a linen blanket, bound tight to prevent any suicide attempt or anything that could pass as exercise. Standard processing usually worked, but not very quickly. He needed speed. A pity; haste ruined the thoroughness with which Trevaj preferred to work. It could not be helped.

He sat down opposite to her, even as she blinked at the unexpected torchlight. Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks reddened in humiliation and anger as she looked upon him. He drew a dagger.
"I am Inspector Trevaj," he said. "I am now going to ask you a few questions. If you refuse to answer, or I sense that you are lying, I will take one of your senses away, ending with hearing. This gives you five lies. First, I will put out your eyes with this," he gestured with the dagger.
"Then, I will stop up your nose with molten metal. After that, your tounge's surface will be torn up, prior to a complete dousing with Cold One venom. Do you understand?"
The cultist's eyes had been growing wider, feigning fear efficiently enough that any but a master would not have been able to tell the difference. She nodded hesitantly. Trevaj grimaced.
"I will let this one pass," he told her - to his satisfaction, to her much more genuine fear. He had seized the initiative and exploited it.
"First, tell me your name." Hesitation. Then...
"Allora Windleaf, Inspector." There was uncertainty, but no lie in her voice or her face; as importantly, the Winds indicated no deception. Good. An admission. Trevaj favoured her with a small smile. This was going better than expected. Indeed, she only tried to lie once; she was sufficiently cowed once he stabbed out her eyes to answer the rest of his questions truthfully. Praise Khaine for His mercies.

The truth stung, but it was hopeful; only four of the guards on the cells had turned out to be cultists - though the remaining two were probably dead by now, it proved that the Hand was not completely crippled. It could not be relied upon until he had purged the Slaanesh worshipers from his ranks, but at least that purge would not be as costly as he had feared. Indeed, he might very well be able to avoid any innocent lives being lost - the captives were gone, and Windleaf had not known where, save that it was somewhere in Avelorn.
Moreover, he had been told where he had seen her before. Allora Windleaf was one of the commanders of the Maiden Guard of the Everqueen of Avelorn, Landalle. He, Trevaj, was to be assassinated at this point specifically because he was considered a nuisance, and because he might have uncovered evidence to disrupt the Everqueen's coming diplomatic visit to the city. So, the Inspector's duty was clear. He headed to the armoury.

Trevaj looked at his crossbow pistol, turning it over in his hands. He should have been delegating this task. No, he corrected himself. He should have ordered the Everqueen's arrest. Unhappily, his own organisation would shatter if he did that. He might trigger the civil war he had hoped desperately to avoid. Irrevocable certainty was one thing, but sometimes the law failed; there was no way to try such an important figure as the Everqueen, let alone have her condemned for treason. The law had died some time ago. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He put four quarrels into his weapon; confiscated, they were of a kind often used by the Cult of Asuryan, complete with poison. Trevaj hated himself for doing it, but it was necessary. He cloaked himself, both literally and sorcerously, and left the Scarred Hand, now scarred in truth; morally, it was now reduced to breaking the law to maintain order - bodily, it was rent and shaken by the deaths and betrayals of many senior officers.

Entering the palace was simple enough; he actually had alternate offices there. From there, it was a simple matter to make his way through the halls; his sword was his to wear even here, a symbol of his position, and a crossbow pistol was easily concealed. He simply moved along as if he was on official business here, and nobody tried to stop him. He regrettably had to slay the Everqueen's personal door-ward, going up behind, clamping his hand over the elf's mouth and shooting him in the back of his chest with one of the confiscated crossbow bolts - a dagger would have been better, but he needed everything he could get to implicate the Cult of Asuryan. He reloaded the weapon, steeled himself, and opened the door to behold a grisly scene.

Everqueen Landalle. Dead in a pool of her own blood, lying naked on the with a similarly naked man sitting over her, regarding the body coolly. Trevaj's mouth dried at the sheer beauty of this person; even more so at the way the Grey Wind seemed to radiate from him. Deception! Trevaj snarled, raised his crossbow pistol and pulled the trigger. It glanced off the assassin's bare skin and broke away. Snarling and unwilling to lose the initiative, Trevaj raised his sword and charged.
The man recovered from his surprise with exceptional speed and rolled out of the bed in a fluid motion, coming to his feet with a knife he had produced from... *somewhere*? Trevaj hesitated; the winds of magic coiled around this man, but in a way that the Inspector had not seen ever before. He seemed to *weave* the winds together somehow. No matter - Trevaj had the reach and the preparation. He swung the blade, and the sorcerer, whoever he was, leapt back; he followed up, and managed to score a nasty gash despite some resistance from an unseen force. As long as he kept attacking, Trevaj reasoned, he should be able to defeat this man. But he wanted a prisoner, not a corpse. Corpses told no tales. He continued to advance gingerly.
It was a mistake.
Allowing the man to regain his footing also let him mutter an arcane syllable. Trevaj's own training was all that gave him the warning to cast up his cloak of a piercing light burst from the other elf's mouth; it was swiftly torn aside by another spell, but this time Trevaj was prepared to counter with his own. The searing incandesance seemed to dull somehow, as if filtered through a thick smoke - which was exactly what the inspector had made; smoke billowed forth from every shadow of the room until it quenched any sight at all, sorcerous or otherwise. It did not, however, block out hearing; a spell was being cast - from the other side of the room to where the stranger had been only seconds before. In a desperate gamble, Trevaj hissed and charged blindly, swinging his sword at where he thought he heard the voice from.

He hit. His sword bit deeply into the flesh of his opponent, who groaned and thumped to the ground.

Everything was dark. He realized that he had surely caused a commotion here, and that he had to disappear quickly. He wiped his sword on the carpet, fumbled towards the door and left, his head suddenly full of questions - who could get close enough to such a senior member of the Cult of Slaanesh to actually slay her? Who could wield such sorceries as he had seen wielded? Lines of reasoning started and were choked by a sudden weariness. He longed for the screams of his prisoners; they were so much simpler.
Perhaps there would be screams when he dreamt.

[Paraicj]

I would say PM a Loremaster (Voodoomaster, TimmyMWD, etc), rather than reply to Ashnari's story.

Which is pretty excellent by the way Ash. Good stuff out of you!