02-24-2023, 02:14 AM
(This post was last modified: 02-24-2023, 06:40 PM by Adrian Kane.)
[[This is an older thread in Arikan's timeline. It takes place prior to meeting up with Nythadri and Talin Sedai in Respite and Resolve. There were other characters in this but I only have the scenes with Arikan and Byron. They're the best ones anyway. *grin. I'll switch back and forth to show pov since that handsome hulk of flesh Byron isn't going to post it himself.
To set the stage. It's underground in the mountains of mist. Lythia has captured Arikan and left him in a hole and Byron is on his way to extract information about the shadow under the guise of a Questioner.]]
![[Image: byron2.jpg]](https://i0.wp.com/thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/byron2.jpg)
Byron just shook his head tiredly at both the pretty-boy Warder and emotional Aes Sedai and carried his bundle of supplies into a side chamber to change. It seemed likely the Aes Sedai would be a chore to work for, and there was little doubt that Blake would always be judging and condemning Byron for his actions to come and past. The pair were perfectly suited to each other. Situations like this were exactly why he never worked with anyone that knew him from the Tower. It made things unnecessarily difficult. How would the pair act towards him once this was over?
It would take some time for Byron to change from the unassuming farmer's garb into that of an Inquisitor. It wasn't some simple matter of changing clothes after all, other efforts had to be made. From within the chest came various items, ranging from a small mirror with stand as well as other odds and ends lifted from the Questioner's tent.
By the light of a lamp, Byron's hair was carefully thinned with a pair of tweezers, then liberally oiled and washed and oiled again. He would look as though his hair was thinning naturally, and would be a darker shade thanks to the oil. Time was spent for painstaking grooming; Inquisitors had a tendency of being very self-important individuals, and the Children were always overly interested in their own appearance.
When Byron did finally emerge again, he wore the chain and white of an Inquisitor of the Light, sword belted and an expensive leather satchel tucked under one arm. As they might have noticed with the role of Jarrick, the changes weren't simply in appearance. The way he carried himself had changed, mannerisms were different. It wasn't perfect; yet again he had been forced to adopt an identity with little time to prepare, but he was confident it would suffice for the task at hand.
His gaze flicked between the Aes Sedai and her Warder briefly. A Inquisitor in such a situation would be full to the brim with disdain for the pair; a witch and her dog, parading about as servants and protectors while digging their claws into the minds of kinds and queens. Puppet masters, the lot of them, taking skilled men as slaves through whatever dark machinations they weave with the taint of the Power. Naturally, Byron didn't believe a word of that but he kept such unpleasant thoughts near the surface to colour his expression, his tone. The added practice to get himself into character would be helpful, after all.
"Well. Let us be on with this charade then. Inquisitor Jeorune. We shall have to collaborate at soon, and decide how it is an Aes Sedai could convince an Inquisitor to work with her." He waved with a hint of impatience for them to lead the way. An Inquisitor, a real one of course, in such a situation, would have little interest in having either of these short-term allies at his back, no matter how closely he would have to work with them. Of course, knowing that he was protected by the Light, if Blake would be so inclined as to push the matter, Jeorune was man enough to let such an insult slip and have the dog at his back.
The walk to the prisoner's hole was otherwise in silence, and when they arrived Inquisitor Jeorune entered alone, curious to finally meet this fell Dreadlord with whom he would be spending so much time over the following weeks. No man, no matter how strong of mind, could withstand the attentions of an Inquisitor for long; it was a simple matter of the weakness of the human mind. But one so far fallen? It would be an opportunity to learn so much of the Shadow's methods.
![[Image: Arikan..._.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/Arikan..._.jpg)
His domain, Tel'Aran'Rhiod, was elusive. Among the remaining masters of old, the majority trembled in their fear of its magnificence with but a few competent within that glorious abyss. Old though he was, he was not a relic of the Second Age; a Master though? Well. He did not tremble.
He tracked the Stalkers of the Dream. He watched the Unseen Eyes. He fashioned the warp of the Dream's Pattern to his will. He penetrated the Layers of the Gap of Infinity. First among men of this Age, he explored other Tel'Aran'Rhiods and each of their Gaps. If these deeds a master made, perhaps he was worthy of the title.
He would think upon these things in the dark hours to come. Now, he jerked awake with the shocked rasp of one uncontrollably caught in another's Nightmare. Reality's relief was slow to dawn. A boring pain flashed his side, but there was no wound to accompany it. Only the pinprick of a blood spot, not the hilt of a dagger. His dagger. It had been with his own blade Elsae stabbed. So why when wounds taken in the Dream transcended into the physical was he left with barely a scratch?
A Master of the Dream World? Yes. Yet that wine cellar was not completely in Tel'Aran'Rhiod. Neither was the corpse lying within or the girl responsible for its dissection completely a part of it. A portal inside perhaps? A wormhole between? How had she managed to take him there? Why was he helpless to watch what unfolded through the mask of his own eyes?
He pulled himself up to sit. Waiting against the slime slicking the wall. Soon, calm evolved into the irony of coincidence when the corpse from The Dream walked in. His brows rose. One of the Hand? Interesting.
"Welcome." The greeting scorned a cold smiled. What an amusing turn of events.
![[Image: byroninquisitor3.jpg]](https://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/byroninquisitor3.jpg)
The Inquisitor seemed unperturbed by the boy's arrogance. Such displays were common in the beginning, but that would change in time. The boy would learn humility and courtesy in the coming days. The Inquisitor's responding smile was faint, much like a father yet again unsurprised by some foolish act of his favourite son. The sort of smile that promised punishment and hinted more at a sense of disappointment in the child's attempts to hide his guilt rather then the actual wrong committed.
He set the leather satchel aside for the moment, the movement carefully planned to draw the boy's attention to the package. There could be little doubt of what was contained within, but the boy would become intimately familiar with each tool there in. Then he turned to regard the boy again, arms folded lightly across his chest, the only sound the faint clatter of chain and leather. This was no Dreadlord to be feared, this was just another fool that had taken to the wrong path. This one had no power anymore, no allies waiting in the wings. He was a wounded, wild dog, once the alpha of a pack perhaps but now naught but a ready meal should his old pack mates find him.
When the Inquisitor finally spoke, his tone was even and almost friendly, although it never quite touched his eyes. "Greetings, child. You shall refer to me as Inquisitor. You, are child. Once you learn matters, I might deign to let you have my name. Perhaps one day, you will earn a name too, but how long that takes is up to you." He turned then, a few deft flicks and tugs of gloved fingers releasing the intricate knot that held the satchel shut, and the lid was flipped open, a brief flash of various tools neatly arranged to the inside flap, and surely more waiting within.
"Know child, that not even one as sullied and abused as yourself are so far gone that the Light will not embrace you, should you prove yourself deserving. Unlike some of my brethren, I do not relish in what I will do to you, nor will I shirk away. It is the end goal we desire, you and I, although you do not admit that to yourself yet. For you know fear, under all that arrogance and hatred." He undid the clasp holding his cape in place and deftly spun it from his shoulders, folding it over in what would seem a long practised manner until it was a neat bundle to be set atop the satchel and opened flap, just enough space to accommodate the cape without it getting sullied with the squalid cell.
"Understand that I desire your redemption. Desire it so much that I would deign to work in the company a witch of the Tower." There was a touch of distaste at that; even the witches could seek redemption in the eyes of the Creator; the Wheel weaved as it willed, and their presence was an unfortunate necessity until after the Last Battle. As long as fools like this boy sided with that abomination, even the Children's glory and honour would not be enough at that fateful day, Creator bless and forgive him for so rogue a thought. "Now. Boy. Know that this witch has been coddling you. That shall change now. You will earn such things as you prove yourself to me, boy."
It was a simple matter to strip the already spartan quarters of what few belongings the Aes Sedai had allowed him; to her credit, they weren't much. The chamber pot was left for now, but washbasin and blankets were calmly stripped away. The boy would have to earn to have such things back. Clothes would be taken as well, and the bed space would eventually be naught but rough straw. The least comfortable of blankets, ones too small to be used in any but the fetal position, would be found. Only one, for now of course. And dirty straw. The boy would have to earn better, or learn to keep what he had clean. All the more to rob him of sleep and comfort, not that the Inquisitor intended to allow him much of either anyways.
His approach would go far beyond simply physical torture. The boy would be broken down in every way imaginable. There were far more effective ways to break an arrogant man's mind then with a knife to his skin. Far worse abuses would be brought to bear on this one. The Inquisitor would take his time, searching out and crushing every inkling of resistance or self confidence the boy had until nothing remained but a child ready to be brought back to the Light. A child with a willing mind, full of all those secrets he and the witch wanted.
Byron had learned much as a boy about how to ruin a man. Take away what they loved. Beatings and verbal abuse, lies and misdirections. Master Dekar had taught Byron much in those early weeks with the caravan. The unnamed street urchin's 'fathers' had done things that kept boys twice the urchin's age in check as willing servants, ones too afraid or twisted to run away or seek help. It had been a strange road that saw Byron to the Tower, and many terrible things had been learned along that path that would be put to use on the arrogant boy infront of him now. Tinctures and potions would be mixed into the boy's foods to rob him of sleep, wrack him with delusions and nightmares, pains and discomforts. It was all a very careful game to be played so as not to shatter the mind too quickly nor ruin the body and cause death. Between his life long knowledge and the books of the real Inquisitor Jeorune, even a would-be Dreadlord would surely stand little chance over time.
"The rules are simple. Speak only when I address you. Ask permission to speak when I address you. You will address me only as Inquisitor. You will do anything you are told. You will only act when told. There shall be daily routines, and you shall do these without complaint or hesitation as you are told. You will make no excuse and tell no lie." He set the removed items by the door, and turned to face him again, "Now. Strip, boy. You do not deserve clothes, as you are but a tool of an abomination. As you return to the Light, as you regain your humanity, you will earn the right to clothes."
Arikan held his arms aloft. A child welcoming the father home from a day in the fields. "Strip? Why, do you see something you like?"
He relaxed, laughing that he should entertain the notion, fully aware just which tier among the world's grand players he was ranked. And it was far above so tired and anorexic a man.
"What are you Hand?" Mercilessly spitting the Children's guttural name for their Questioners. He satiated his own desire by providing an answer. "Compared to the majesty that is my Master? What can you do to break me? When I have broken others with a more elegant tool than yours?" Memory of the formless Father distorted his superior voice into the shrill screech of a soul ignited in the Lake of Fire; one bleeding even now that the magnificence of saidin was denied.
"You've short work, Hand. I freely admit my allegiance." He stared proud as one who encountered one of his own; a headsman to the grave digger. They were cut from the same cloth, the Hand and him. "When i've groveled under Shai'tan's weight and choked on the firesands at the Pit of Dhoom tell me why I should waste one of my immense thoughts on your demands.” He smirked.
"If you want me stripped, come do it yourself." Or he could try, he tired of talking about it.
To set the stage. It's underground in the mountains of mist. Lythia has captured Arikan and left him in a hole and Byron is on his way to extract information about the shadow under the guise of a Questioner.]]
Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune
Byron just shook his head tiredly at both the pretty-boy Warder and emotional Aes Sedai and carried his bundle of supplies into a side chamber to change. It seemed likely the Aes Sedai would be a chore to work for, and there was little doubt that Blake would always be judging and condemning Byron for his actions to come and past. The pair were perfectly suited to each other. Situations like this were exactly why he never worked with anyone that knew him from the Tower. It made things unnecessarily difficult. How would the pair act towards him once this was over?
It would take some time for Byron to change from the unassuming farmer's garb into that of an Inquisitor. It wasn't some simple matter of changing clothes after all, other efforts had to be made. From within the chest came various items, ranging from a small mirror with stand as well as other odds and ends lifted from the Questioner's tent.
By the light of a lamp, Byron's hair was carefully thinned with a pair of tweezers, then liberally oiled and washed and oiled again. He would look as though his hair was thinning naturally, and would be a darker shade thanks to the oil. Time was spent for painstaking grooming; Inquisitors had a tendency of being very self-important individuals, and the Children were always overly interested in their own appearance.
When Byron did finally emerge again, he wore the chain and white of an Inquisitor of the Light, sword belted and an expensive leather satchel tucked under one arm. As they might have noticed with the role of Jarrick, the changes weren't simply in appearance. The way he carried himself had changed, mannerisms were different. It wasn't perfect; yet again he had been forced to adopt an identity with little time to prepare, but he was confident it would suffice for the task at hand.
His gaze flicked between the Aes Sedai and her Warder briefly. A Inquisitor in such a situation would be full to the brim with disdain for the pair; a witch and her dog, parading about as servants and protectors while digging their claws into the minds of kinds and queens. Puppet masters, the lot of them, taking skilled men as slaves through whatever dark machinations they weave with the taint of the Power. Naturally, Byron didn't believe a word of that but he kept such unpleasant thoughts near the surface to colour his expression, his tone. The added practice to get himself into character would be helpful, after all.
"Well. Let us be on with this charade then. Inquisitor Jeorune. We shall have to collaborate at soon, and decide how it is an Aes Sedai could convince an Inquisitor to work with her." He waved with a hint of impatience for them to lead the way. An Inquisitor, a real one of course, in such a situation, would have little interest in having either of these short-term allies at his back, no matter how closely he would have to work with them. Of course, knowing that he was protected by the Light, if Blake would be so inclined as to push the matter, Jeorune was man enough to let such an insult slip and have the dog at his back.
The walk to the prisoner's hole was otherwise in silence, and when they arrived Inquisitor Jeorune entered alone, curious to finally meet this fell Dreadlord with whom he would be spending so much time over the following weeks. No man, no matter how strong of mind, could withstand the attentions of an Inquisitor for long; it was a simple matter of the weakness of the human mind. But one so far fallen? It would be an opportunity to learn so much of the Shadow's methods.
His domain, Tel'Aran'Rhiod, was elusive. Among the remaining masters of old, the majority trembled in their fear of its magnificence with but a few competent within that glorious abyss. Old though he was, he was not a relic of the Second Age; a Master though? Well. He did not tremble.
He tracked the Stalkers of the Dream. He watched the Unseen Eyes. He fashioned the warp of the Dream's Pattern to his will. He penetrated the Layers of the Gap of Infinity. First among men of this Age, he explored other Tel'Aran'Rhiods and each of their Gaps. If these deeds a master made, perhaps he was worthy of the title.
He would think upon these things in the dark hours to come. Now, he jerked awake with the shocked rasp of one uncontrollably caught in another's Nightmare. Reality's relief was slow to dawn. A boring pain flashed his side, but there was no wound to accompany it. Only the pinprick of a blood spot, not the hilt of a dagger. His dagger. It had been with his own blade Elsae stabbed. So why when wounds taken in the Dream transcended into the physical was he left with barely a scratch?
A Master of the Dream World? Yes. Yet that wine cellar was not completely in Tel'Aran'Rhiod. Neither was the corpse lying within or the girl responsible for its dissection completely a part of it. A portal inside perhaps? A wormhole between? How had she managed to take him there? Why was he helpless to watch what unfolded through the mask of his own eyes?
He pulled himself up to sit. Waiting against the slime slicking the wall. Soon, calm evolved into the irony of coincidence when the corpse from The Dream walked in. His brows rose. One of the Hand? Interesting.
"Welcome." The greeting scorned a cold smiled. What an amusing turn of events.
Byron / Inquisitor Jeorune
The Inquisitor seemed unperturbed by the boy's arrogance. Such displays were common in the beginning, but that would change in time. The boy would learn humility and courtesy in the coming days. The Inquisitor's responding smile was faint, much like a father yet again unsurprised by some foolish act of his favourite son. The sort of smile that promised punishment and hinted more at a sense of disappointment in the child's attempts to hide his guilt rather then the actual wrong committed.
He set the leather satchel aside for the moment, the movement carefully planned to draw the boy's attention to the package. There could be little doubt of what was contained within, but the boy would become intimately familiar with each tool there in. Then he turned to regard the boy again, arms folded lightly across his chest, the only sound the faint clatter of chain and leather. This was no Dreadlord to be feared, this was just another fool that had taken to the wrong path. This one had no power anymore, no allies waiting in the wings. He was a wounded, wild dog, once the alpha of a pack perhaps but now naught but a ready meal should his old pack mates find him.
When the Inquisitor finally spoke, his tone was even and almost friendly, although it never quite touched his eyes. "Greetings, child. You shall refer to me as Inquisitor. You, are child. Once you learn matters, I might deign to let you have my name. Perhaps one day, you will earn a name too, but how long that takes is up to you." He turned then, a few deft flicks and tugs of gloved fingers releasing the intricate knot that held the satchel shut, and the lid was flipped open, a brief flash of various tools neatly arranged to the inside flap, and surely more waiting within.
"Know child, that not even one as sullied and abused as yourself are so far gone that the Light will not embrace you, should you prove yourself deserving. Unlike some of my brethren, I do not relish in what I will do to you, nor will I shirk away. It is the end goal we desire, you and I, although you do not admit that to yourself yet. For you know fear, under all that arrogance and hatred." He undid the clasp holding his cape in place and deftly spun it from his shoulders, folding it over in what would seem a long practised manner until it was a neat bundle to be set atop the satchel and opened flap, just enough space to accommodate the cape without it getting sullied with the squalid cell.
"Understand that I desire your redemption. Desire it so much that I would deign to work in the company a witch of the Tower." There was a touch of distaste at that; even the witches could seek redemption in the eyes of the Creator; the Wheel weaved as it willed, and their presence was an unfortunate necessity until after the Last Battle. As long as fools like this boy sided with that abomination, even the Children's glory and honour would not be enough at that fateful day, Creator bless and forgive him for so rogue a thought. "Now. Boy. Know that this witch has been coddling you. That shall change now. You will earn such things as you prove yourself to me, boy."
It was a simple matter to strip the already spartan quarters of what few belongings the Aes Sedai had allowed him; to her credit, they weren't much. The chamber pot was left for now, but washbasin and blankets were calmly stripped away. The boy would have to earn to have such things back. Clothes would be taken as well, and the bed space would eventually be naught but rough straw. The least comfortable of blankets, ones too small to be used in any but the fetal position, would be found. Only one, for now of course. And dirty straw. The boy would have to earn better, or learn to keep what he had clean. All the more to rob him of sleep and comfort, not that the Inquisitor intended to allow him much of either anyways.
His approach would go far beyond simply physical torture. The boy would be broken down in every way imaginable. There were far more effective ways to break an arrogant man's mind then with a knife to his skin. Far worse abuses would be brought to bear on this one. The Inquisitor would take his time, searching out and crushing every inkling of resistance or self confidence the boy had until nothing remained but a child ready to be brought back to the Light. A child with a willing mind, full of all those secrets he and the witch wanted.
Byron had learned much as a boy about how to ruin a man. Take away what they loved. Beatings and verbal abuse, lies and misdirections. Master Dekar had taught Byron much in those early weeks with the caravan. The unnamed street urchin's 'fathers' had done things that kept boys twice the urchin's age in check as willing servants, ones too afraid or twisted to run away or seek help. It had been a strange road that saw Byron to the Tower, and many terrible things had been learned along that path that would be put to use on the arrogant boy infront of him now. Tinctures and potions would be mixed into the boy's foods to rob him of sleep, wrack him with delusions and nightmares, pains and discomforts. It was all a very careful game to be played so as not to shatter the mind too quickly nor ruin the body and cause death. Between his life long knowledge and the books of the real Inquisitor Jeorune, even a would-be Dreadlord would surely stand little chance over time.
"The rules are simple. Speak only when I address you. Ask permission to speak when I address you. You will address me only as Inquisitor. You will do anything you are told. You will only act when told. There shall be daily routines, and you shall do these without complaint or hesitation as you are told. You will make no excuse and tell no lie." He set the removed items by the door, and turned to face him again, "Now. Strip, boy. You do not deserve clothes, as you are but a tool of an abomination. As you return to the Light, as you regain your humanity, you will earn the right to clothes."
Arikan held his arms aloft. A child welcoming the father home from a day in the fields. "Strip? Why, do you see something you like?"
He relaxed, laughing that he should entertain the notion, fully aware just which tier among the world's grand players he was ranked. And it was far above so tired and anorexic a man.
"What are you Hand?" Mercilessly spitting the Children's guttural name for their Questioners. He satiated his own desire by providing an answer. "Compared to the majesty that is my Master? What can you do to break me? When I have broken others with a more elegant tool than yours?" Memory of the formless Father distorted his superior voice into the shrill screech of a soul ignited in the Lake of Fire; one bleeding even now that the magnificence of saidin was denied.
"You've short work, Hand. I freely admit my allegiance." He stared proud as one who encountered one of his own; a headsman to the grave digger. They were cut from the same cloth, the Hand and him. "When i've groveled under Shai'tan's weight and choked on the firesands at the Pit of Dhoom tell me why I should waste one of my immense thoughts on your demands.” He smirked.
"If you want me stripped, come do it yourself." Or he could try, he tired of talking about it.