Each tool has its purpose.
Sharpened edges, blunted tips, forceps and picks, scoops and peelers. Each tool, every tool, had purpose. Aligned neatly in row with inanimate anticipation of her selection. Was it glee that such implement felt as cold fingers wrapped it? Was it excitement that it felt as it tasted warm skin?
The Ebon was ripped from her moment of pondering by the sound of coughing. The wet gasps as the prisoner’s arms wrenched back and drew her face from the trough. The woman sputtered out the sullen water from her lungs as air asserted itself once more to her life.
“We’ve talked about this. Cooperation is what delivers us from adversity.” The Ebon’s words were low, soft, almost deceptively gentle. She lifted a plated hand to dust a few loose hairs stuck against the shivering features of her captive. “We’ve talked about your friends.. but you don’t seem to know much about the ‘Council’ you mentioned. Why?”
The woman maintained her eyes closed, blood leaking fresh from recent cuts against her lips. When she did speak, her voice was cracked and carried upon it the twisted affect of an abused soul.
“..no one knows about them. We don’t. We-” She was violently cut off as her head was pressed down below the waters. Primal panic took over, driving her into a frenzy of kicking and grasping against the hand firmly tied up in her hair. As her head was pulled back from the moment of demise, she expelled the darkened waters from her lungs and stomach with violent wretch.
“One reason.. one.. that’s all I need. If I can give a reason why you deserve to live, you will likely walk away from this. So.. the Council..”
“I don’t know..” She muttered, but as she felt the grip tighten in her hair she blurted out a desperate “Wait!”
It was enough, enough to draw pause to the inevitable. The Ebon turned her captive’s features so they could meet eye to glowing eye.
“Yes?” Magda noted with the slightest hint of interest. The woman leaked only a few more droplets of stirred blood from her mouth before she repealed her last bastions of secrecy.
“Old Town.. a tavern called the Wounded Hound. The people there.. know more than me. It’s the only lead..”
Magda released the woman’s hair, rising up to full height. Her finger lifted to her ear where she depressed the small metal earpiece placed within.
“Mistress? We have something..”
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