RP:A Good Mask
Jacklin descended down into the belly of Larket’s beast in a most casual of manners. For the Executioner, it was a path she’d taken many times in her life. The outcome was often death, but on occasion a more fruitful ending was reached. Torture, brainwashing, or perhaps even a mild case of capturers-lust was options all ripe for the picking on this evening. On her right was Sapheul, the thick plume of grey smoke rising to seep into his pores and surround his head with a sinner’s halo. Sapheul moved behind his Queen with a fairly slower pace, grass-green eyes catching the trickles of light breaking through the cracks in the stonework, the weary orange glow of his cigar fighting to stay alive during the trip into such a cool, damp place. Jack positioned her body at the right side of the still-sleeping blood mage, fingers directing the guards that their time was coming to a close. To Sapheul she lifted her chin to indicate her need of his hands, or at least what was in them. It was a mask of most beautiful make, gleaming in the filtered light created by torches and shining its rainbow of colors against the drab walls. The swarthy guardian stepped to the side of Jack with but a single bound, his calloused hands placing the mask on the sheepishly bobbing chest of Valaran and the nails were gifted to the elder brawler with a wink. “Hold him down as you can, Sapheul. He’ll be a might mad after this first hit.” Jacklin took no loss of time before fitting the mask over his face. She took great detail in making certain the piece of manipulated iron lines up with nostrils, eyes, and even his lips. Another object was taken from her personal guardian now, a hammer. Sapheul’s hands closed down around the arms of Valaran and muscles bulged beneath the simple cotton shirt in promise that the mage was secure by both guard and straps. Plucking one of the nails from the rising abdomen of the man she fit it within the small, round opening of the mask. Feeling with leather-bound fingers to where the proper place would be for injection, Jack no longer wished for the man to be dead. Only to be in pain, only to remember that pain for a long time to come. Lifting the hammer she positioned it behind the flat head and with a mighty rearing-of-arm, the hammer was delivered unto the nail. It was a force great enough to drive the fastening object through flesh, muscle, and even bone matter to secure the mask in place. Knowing well the man wouldn’t be shy of his objection to the method, Jack continued on with another nail. Winding around Valaran until all the nails were locked into place.
Valaran cries out in anguish as the first blow drives its target home. The mage is quick to pull against his bonds and, running on a surge of adrenaline, is perhaps stronger than the guards could have anticipated. They struggle to keep him down… But they do keep him down. In an attempt to pause the horrendous torture, the blood mage shakes his head violently until one of the guards moves a hand up to steady him. He tries to plead with her. To beg her to stop. To say he was sorry and stupid and oh so very young… 'Mercy!' he begs; all she hears is a garbled scream, his tongue rendered useless by a fiery brand. As Jacklin continues to drive nail after nail into smooth supple flesh the mage stops his begging and replaces it with streams of vehement tears. He would cry out as a nail breaks flesh and blood and the cry would soon melt into sobs. Then, wham! Another nail, more screams, and more tears. Truly, this is the mask of a broken man
Jacklin took momentary appraisal of her artwork. The Executioner was not gifted in the world of paints or pens, her signature often appeared as though a drunkard had found a quill in some dusty street and attempted to scribble words he knew nothing of. Even as the masticated cries of Valaran grew louder, each misdirected vocal reaching heavenward for something to hold on to, the Queen did not react. Each aged-drawn line around lips and eyes remained still, cracked lips uttered no condolences to the blood mage in his pleas of mercy, and those steely cobalt eyes she was so known for focused on the eyes of her victim. Some people may have been too guilty to look their transgression in the eyes, but Jacklin was not the weaker. Her entire person had been devoted to a role of aggression, a role of causing pain to another even if society did not issue it. A woman bred for the role of Executioner, never for the job of a Queen. Upon the grunt of Sapheul, his cigar having long turned its light off, the human awoke from her inner monologue on what other ways she could have arranged this. What’s done is done, she surmised. Drawing the black, soft mask over her face the brawler delivered the final nail into the blood mage’s jaw. It was finished. Leaning over the reposed figure of Valaran she spoke hastily, those sharp whiskied vocals meant to sting the ears of the scholar for a lasting imprint, “You’ll see me in the streets when you recover. You’ll know my face, my voice, and my mannerisms. And, boy, you’ll know for sure that a step toward me with wrong intentions won’t end in silly torture.” Lifting face to the few guards still milling around the cellar she gestures toward Valaran as she climbed the stairs again, “Unlock him and get him the hell outta’ my city.”