RP:Nymh's Colored Past

From HollowWiki

Part of the Surface Tension Arc



Synopisis: D'Artes slavemasters have been unable to remove an enchanted dagger from Nymh's possession. Disturbed by this, Gevurah interrogates Nymh and casts a lie detecting spell. Nymh answers questions about his birth, history, the dagger, its enchantment. Satisfied by his honesty, Gevurah administers a bit of mercy as part of her calculated plan to convert him into a loyal servant through a series of punishments and rewards. Nymh hopes to one day be reunited with his ocarina, which was taken away when the slavers realized that through its song Nymh can charm and manipulate others.


D'Artes Dungeons

Gevurah has been given updates from Rauva about the chosen slaves’ progress. One detail in particular nagged her: Nymh’s dagger. That won’t do. She asks the slavemaster to show her to the bard and finds him deprived of the opportunity to perform, scrubbing floors on his knees, in a dark dungeon that smells like feces. She nods approvingly to the slavemaster and he leaves. The priestess did not bring guards; she doesn’t need them. Although she has been told it is impossible to remove the dagger from the slave, she starts with a basic command to establish their power dynamic. Slave owning 101. “Give me the dagger.”


Nymh had been scrubbing for some time, and it showed on his knees. When Gevurah stood before him, he'd have been hard pressed to stand to address her, though he doubted that was called for. When she asked for the dagger, he'd nod. "Yes, mistress." He'd hand her the dagger, which would simply disappear from her possession, and wind up in his own again, in short order. He'd avoid her gaze, knowing well who she was. He'd been asked to hand over the dagger several times, always to the same result. Perhaps he'd get away without a beating, this time.


Gevurah is satisfied for Nymh to remain on his knees. She expected the dagger to disappear, as per her employees’ reports, and thus she watches Nymh instead of the dagger during the hand-off. She searches for a whispered word or some show of concentration to expose Nymh as willingly recalling the dagger back to his side, but she finds nothing of the sort. “Explain. What is this and what does it do. How did you come across it.”


Nymh paused as she addressed him. "I was given it when I was born, as part of a ceremony. It was realized only moments after that I was actually a half breed, though instead of killing me the house put me to use. It was a minor, weak house. They taught me to steal and kill for them, but found I had a better use. I was capable with music, and even magic through it, as you have witnessed, mistress. They sold me for a high price, and I have been passed around in that manner, since. The dagger is tied to my very soul, a curse upon me. When I die, it will claim another, and haunt them instead." Haunt. That was an apt word for it. The nightmares were worse than drow torture... there was a hollowness in his eye as he described it.


Gevurah is experiencing her own form of torture as she hears a terrible story about a drow house that let a half breed live. Disgusting. “No doubt such a foolish house will never rise to power,” she murmurs. Lower houses make her embarrassed for her race. Perhaps the city needs a culling — but that’s neither here nor there. Returning to the matter at hand, she squints her eyes in suspicion. Did Nymh leave out an important part of his story? “You have not explained the ceremony or why they entrusted you with such a rare object. How does it haunt? Why waste such expense on a slave?” It is possibly that Gevurah — frugal, cruel, sinister, hateful — will never understands the machinations of a house that kept a grey elf.


Nymh nodded his head. "It was hoped I would be a pure blooded and powerful assassin for the house. The dagger was meant for a great assassin. My matron had of accident bred with a wood elf slave, and the dagger is stronger the longer it is bonded to one. To bond it to an infant produces the greatest effect possible, to make of it an extension of the wielder's self. It has a mind of its own, a sentience, and it thirsts for blood. It makes its desires... clear to its wielder, often by tormenting them in their dreams, or even showing them false horrors in their waking moments." He'd grown used to it, to seeing things that weren't there. Terrible things. "I would have been killed and the blade recovered for another, but my matron proved infertile, and it was discovered soon that I was possessed of a unique talent, that is long lost to the drow. Bae'qeshel, darksong. I am the only bard of drow blood, even if only half, perhaps in all the world."


Gevurah eyes Nymh suspiciously, her chin held high. The story confers upon him a status and prestige that is rather convenient for a slave. She’s had slave make up all kinds of tall-tales over the years to try and buy another day of life, a less arduous task, a special favor. But if he isn’t lying, then he would make a lovely addition to the D’Artes collection of rare drow artefacts. “If you’re so special and so rare, then why were you sold?” She smirks to herself, satisfied. Surely this is a lie.


Nymh shook his head. "The house was poor, and thought to make a lot of money off of me. It was you that prevented that from happening, mistress." After his performance in the market, the auction would have gone very, very well for the house... until Gevurah decided there wasn't to be an auction.


Gevurah smiles to herself at the memory of frustrating a lower house’s dreams. What’s the point of power if you can’t throw your weight around and have some fun with it? Although Nymh’s behavior pleases her, she does not yet know how much of it is true. She whispers a spell without explaining to Nymh what he is doing, but he can probably guess from context clues what she is aftter when she asks, “Repeat your story. Who are you. How did you come across your dagger. What does the dagger do. How did you come to be a bard.” She utters the questions as statements. Her spell detects lies, but does not reveal truths. She also listens for inconsistencies in his story.


Nymh would repeat his story, but no lie would be detected. It was the truth, and had once been the crutch upon which he was allowed many privileges. There were no inconsistencies... he knew well when to lie, and when not to. He'd been taught much, even as a slave. "My music was self learned, though the ebony ocarina I possess was made for me upon discovery of my talents."


Although his truth, like any person's truth, is only one version of events, Gevurah is satisfied by his honesty. Her lips part to ask why he supposes he was never given his freedom, but then his race answers that question for her -- or so she assumes. "If the dagger is such a burden to you, the House could look into freeing you from its curse." She isn't sure how such a feat would be accomplished, but trusts in her patron.


Nymh blinks, thinking on that. "I was told by all that it was my burden until I died, that there was no known force that could change that." He almost fingered the blade, then. "It would mean my life, to be parted from it. My soul would tear asunder." As much horror as it visited upon him, it had saved his life a number of times. And... he knew its secrets, as it knew his. Milky wisps of hair fell over eye and patch, as he kept his gaze down, pondering what Gevurah would see fit to do with him. Perhaps he wouldn't have to scrub on his knees for much longer. Then again, among drow, it was best not to hope for much. It led to less disappointment, that way.


Gevurah doesn't seem dissuaded by the threat on Nymh's life. A slave's a slave's a slave. But Nymh is special, if his claim to be the only darksong bard with drow blood is true. Perhaps he is worth collecting. But she can't let him play music -- at last not yet. His ability to charm and control others through song is too dangerous. She needs to convert him; a little brainwashing, a little carrot to go with the stick. "Lie on your back, with your rear against the wall and your legs lifted towards the ceiling, resting against the wall. It will hurt at first, but the flow of blood back down your legs should help."


Nymh blinks, when she tells him to move in such a way. Was this a mercy? He would, of course, comply, lying against the ground, and raising his legs to rest against the wall. That wasn't easy. Moving his knees is such a way, bleeding as they were, required him to grit his teeth and push through it. But she was right... once he'd gotten his legs up, it did help abait the pain somewhat. He would lie there, waiting for whatever might come next. The trick, the joke, the whip... more than likely.


Gevurah crosses to the wall by Nymh's legs. Her whip of vipers writhe in eager anticipation, ready to exact her sadism, but she never calls on their venom. Instead her hand hovers over his knees and lips flutter over a whispered incantation. A pale light, like faerie fire, expands from her hand into a sphere that encompasses both knees. The light floods his legs with holistic warmth. The cuts stop bleeding, the pain subsides. They feel numb, as if she applied an anesthetic agent. They still respond to him, and the numbness will subside within the hour. At that point, his legs will feel as if they have rested for three days. She steps away from him and signals for the slavemaster to come. When he arrives, she instructs, "He is done scrubbing for the day. Show him back to his cell." Nymh's dirty, smelly, cramped, hot, humid cell. To the bard she explains, "You pleased me today, and so I give you this. Please me, and you shall receive. Cross me, and you shall suffer. It's simple." Some slave can't be broken by torture alone. Some need a system of punishments and rewards, a little compassion, even one as fabricated and calculated as hers.


Nymh knew the game Gevurah played, as she healed his legs. He knew it... but that didn't change the hold it had on him. He was in a world where you took what you could get, and you survived by whatever means necessary. Gevurah's good will was his ticket to survival. What was important wasn't simply pleasing her... it was leading her to the knowledge of his real, possible value. If he could achieve that, then what Rauva mentioned might become possible someday. Unlikely, but possible. Freedom. Or what sufficed, for freedom. A free-er form of servitude, no doubt. He would only nod to her words, and say, "Thank you, mistress." As the slavemaster hauled him away on numbed legs. Torture did much to break his will down... but without fingers and teeth and tongue, a bard lost much of his musical ability. It was what had protected him from the worst of things in the past.