primordials

The dungeon stinks to Iorveth’s nose. The stench of dh’oine filth, the reek of fungus, ages old, clinging inward upon cracks within the stonework. He can smell the lingering odor of the body that had been left untouched just a half day too long, the body that was incapable of withstanding the methods employed by the esteemed military unit, the Blue Stripes. Iorveth could feel the dank depth of the prison with every inward breath, and permeating it all, the metallic tang of his own blood as it dried within his nose. His surroundings smelled, yes, but Iorveth was far from offended. Dismal conditions were nothing more than a psychological trick meant to break men far less than him. Throw the severed heads of comrades back into a home encampment in the dark of night, imprison men with the brutalized bodies of their dying companions - these tactics would not work upon the elf, not when he employed the same methods himself, not when the very foundation of his legendary reputation was built upon such cruelty.

It’s in silence that Iorveth waits. There are none of his fellows imprisoned with him to conspire with in quiet elven tongue, unintelligible to their jailers—for that matter, Iorveth must wonder who yet lives from his ambushed squad. He can vividly recall, back in the thick of the woods, the two elves that had fallen immediately, as if struck by lightening. It took but a moment for Iorveth to reflexively draw his sword at the sound of the first crossbow’s bolt being shot, and just as quickly, a third elf immediately to his right dropped. Everything beyond that moment happened too quickly - the forest seemingly birthing every cursed body adorned in blue and white, the ease with which Iorveth managed to sink his blade into the belly of the closest foe. Then there was the strike that hit him from behind, and the realization that they must have had it hammered into their head by this point—the whoreson’s missing an eye for fuck’s sake. I don’t know what bigger advantage you could ask for. Iorveth’s next breath had come in two parts, first as an elvish curse at the mace that smashed the blade from his hand, then a vitriolic scream of anger as he was thrown down and bound. The boot to his ribs was added for good measure, certainly, and in his moment of breathlessness, Iorveth could hear the escape of one elf through the underbrush, and the agonized moan of another. A moment of silence, and then the ugly, victorious guffaw of the man standing above him. ‘Just as the commander said. Lay a trap, an’ eventually the fuckin’ squirrels’ll crawl right into it.’

It wasn’t fair for Iorveth to call his company a squad, though. Their numbers had been too far destroyed thanks to the efficient post-war work of the Temarian special forces. Today’s victory had to be nothing more than child’s play to Vernon Roche.

He’d carry an extra blade, Iorveth resolved to himself in his isolation. An extra weapon, lest his enemies ever again found the arrogance to think him predictable. Still, it’s a vow that does little to soothe the storm of his soul, and most certainly, the dungeon itself does little to quell the agitation Iorveth feels within his gut. He had yet to sit, instead opting to stand centered within the cell, unmoving from where he had been left and locked away. The guards had been swift to disarm him, unsurprisingly, his weapons lost to him back at the battle site, and then any protective gear upon his entry to the prison. His gloves, his boots - ah, but to remove his coat, they had needed to untie him, and in that moment, the elf had seen a seemingly final bid for freedom. His weight thrown against one solider had been enough to displace the man, but one of the guards that stood outside Iorveth’s door at that very moment had been the one to pacify the elf by use of his fist. A ringing head and one bloody nose later, and Iorveth was sufficiently barricaded away, wrists rebound, pride hurt above all else.

Finally, though, he moves, turning to face the cell’s sole door, a heavy oaken thing. He wants to curse the guards that stand on the other side of it, to tell them in detail every way in which he would end them. He would wear their teeth upon leather cords round his neck, he would leave them tied within range of the nastiest nekker nest he could find. A drake’s fire would seem a merciful bath in comparison to the acidic concoction Iorveth would acquire to smear upon their flesh. He would relish in every scream and savor every whimper. Their bids for mercy would lay poetic upon his ears and-

But Iorveth knows his words would garner a scorned laugh at best. These humans could never possess a sense of severity great enough to comprehend the ire they had garnered, ire that manifests itself in a snarl upon Iorveth’s face, an ugly expression directed towards the heavy oaken door standing between him and his captors. It’s an idle movement, the way he raises his bound hands to wipe what blood remains upon his lip off onto his sleeve, and the first step closer to the door that he takes comes silent, aided by his bare feet. He possessed zero interest in the idle conversation of the commandos—especially given that their current topic of discussion focused on lewd jokes about dwarven women—but the sooner he could eavesdrop upon potentially revealing discussion, the sooner a plan of escape could start to form…

“-an’ he’s down there drinking away his sorrow over his passed wife, an’ he says, ‘It’s amazing’ how little people care,’ an’ I tell him, I says to him, ‘Hey, mate, I care, really,’ an’ he takes a moment an’ then goes, ‘No, no, I mean… I’m talking about that dwarf whore gave me a suck.’”

Their laughs comes synchronized and disgusting, an affront to Iorveth’s ears. He takes another step closer, nearing in enough that he can just catch sight of either man, the backs of their heads visible through the barred peep window cut into the wood of the door. The moment they notice he’s roused himself into moving, Iorveth knows they’ll be cruel in their words, endless in jest towards him, and utterly useless, devoid of what tiny worth they could potentially hold. Was it too much to hope for, though? A vague mention of a change in guard, perhaps? Quiet discussion of prison protocol as the evening pulled into night? Iorveth takes a third step, an action that coincides with the immediate silence of the guards outside, and in a held breath, he waits for their attention to turn upon him, certain that he must have been noticed. They don’t turn, though, and the elf can tell that it is something outside the cell that distracts them, something more severe and demanding than their experiences in the brothels of their travels. They straighten up, Iorveth can tell, an air of professionalism falling upon them, and together, they speak the sole word that falls as poison upon the elf’s ears.

“Commander!”

There is nothing given in return to them, though. No footsteps, no acknowledgement. Perhaps a gesture? Iorveth can’t tell, and he does little to enlighten himself, instead choosing to revert back to his original position at the center of the cell. He observes what he can with some amount of interest as the guards gather themselves and clear out, and already, Iorveth can feel the bile building in his throat. What loathing had already been lurking in his stomach feels amplified, a twisting of rage that makes the elf clench his jaw, tighter with each moment now that he can hear it—the steady sound of footsteps approaching, solid and purposeful and fearless—and Iorveth knows what man draws forth, each rapid beat of his heart bringing them ever closer. So close that Iorveth knows that were his hands not bound, were there not a wall and door and bars between them… He would lash out. He would tear and claw and break. Iorveth would leave nothing of the other man, he would destroy him as no other could—as no other would. None were as worthy of the honor as the elf, and Iorveth would wear his claimed badge of Temarian lilies with sadistic pride.

It’s in the last moment that Iorveth steels himself, for he knows the sight of face that will appear in the barred window will come as a punch in his gut. A face, he had realized, was absent from the day’s earlier assault. Would his attendance have made this moment less bitter for Iorveth? No. Never, and the face that shows itself in the window curls Iorveth’s lip upwards in disgust, his eye narrowing to meet the callous stare of the other man. Were his hands free, Iorveth might feel inclined to make a sweeping gesture, a mockery of a bow in celebration of his foe’s victory. Instead, he speaks, his words spat as if venom.

“Vernon Roche. Are you feeling proud this day? I would imagine so, though I cannot imagine why, aside from the obvious. Is this a new trend, forfeiting the battlefield to your subordinates? Let me admit my disappointment at not finding you upon the end of my blade today.”