“I would wish to know more about reverie. What it means, how one practices it….” I twiddle my thumbs awkwardly as I ask, like a child asking how and why the sky is blue.
‘I need to know further. Specifically, what you wish to understand, or gain from the understanding. I know the... why, is more important than the how, yes?’ The dark-clad Avariel asks.
“...In terms of practical application? The how is far better. But the reasoning why it is important, is always important to me."
Part One: Roll Call
“Painbringerrrrrrs!” The Whipmistress bellows, a deep, earth-shaking thing from the depths of her lungs. “Souuuunnnnnd off!”
‘Beloved of Agony!’ One cries out, followed by two stomps against the soil. ‘Practitioner of Pain!’ Another yells, letting out a cackle. ‘Lust for Life!’ Comes the boom of the woman next to me. I take a breath in. My time is now. “Heir of Suffering.” I say with genuine pride, authority creeping into the tone as if to spite the Whipmistress’s own. The next in line hears their time, and replies to the soundoff. ‘Spider’s Kiss.’ ‘Regent of Regret.’ And so on, and so forth, down the line.
Most of them were Crinti, through and through. Some of them were Children of the First like myself - easy enough to find them without a hint of Drow about them, mouths without fangs or razors for teeth, hair a color other than white. There was pride, in my own visage - I didn’t see it frequently enough, but I knew it well. Short, dark, and silvered hair, but with all the lineage of the First to my claim.
“What does She mean?!” Whipmistress demands an answer, as if to start a chant. ‘The Meaning of Pain!’ We all respond, giving two thumps of a stomp.
“What is our sting?!”
‘The Meaning of Pain!’
“What do we bring?!”
‘The Meaning of Pain!’
“From them we will wring!”
‘The Meaning of Pain!’
“Painbringerrrs!” Comes the call of the Whipmistress once more. “Today! We hunt!” There are cries and cheers of affirmation as she looks upon us with pride. It eventually devolves into a repeating hoot, gutteral and deep from the chest, as we each beat our weapons against our chest. Blunt and smacking against ourselves, ignoring whatever cuts, bruises, or the like scrape against our bare skin as we present for the morning’s Rites of Pain and Purity. “We will feast! We will dine on their pain and languishing like fine wine and paired pork, aha!” Whipmistress snickers. I can’t help but smirk, a bit, at her choice of words. Always my undoing. She notes, and whips me sufficiently, as is my want. I maintain my cheering. The whip was my calling, after all.
“Buncha softie woodcutters decided to get themselves killed by the Trunadar in blueleaf processing again. You know what that means!”
‘Elves! Watch! Elves! Watch! Elves! Watch!’ We cry out our presumed destination in unison, to the beat of our stomping feet and pounding weapons.
“Attagirl, Painbringerrrrs!” She bellows. “Today, we will be posted at Elveswatch, specifically Camp Sunset’s Sorrow, seven miles northeast of the break in the woods. Amtar awaits, and she’s an impatient wench, ain’t she?”
‘Elves! Watch! Elves! Watch!’ Is our maintained cry before she asks, in which we all respond in practiced unison. ‘Pleasure and Pain! Pleasure and Pain! Pleasure and Pain! Pleasure and Pain!’
“There she is!” Whipmistress cackles. “That’s right. Today we will be weaponizing anguish against the Trunadar who dare strike out against us. This will be an Incursion, not an Invasion. The Meaning of Pain is best done in small doses to introduce them to the Truth, isn’t it, girls?”
A cacophony of ‘Pleasure and Pain!’ is her response.
“In the order of capability. Line up or be lined!” Then, in practiced fashion, Whipmistress turns away from the line of Painbringers, and opens up a notebook. A blank notebook. Stark white. She neither looks at it nor writes in it. Just stands there. Grinning to herself for what she knows is about to happen.
Here is my chance. Right now. Right now. I need to move to the front of the line as quickly as possible. And everyone else knows it. Some meekly maintain their position, others - most everyone, even - jostle immediately for position. Pushing, shoving - in front, Languished Longing drops her voice two octaves and just starts bellowing at the person trying to push beyond her, and they back down in an instant - before I finally make my way there after tripping Lust for Life and dislocating her ankle. I hear her sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth as she gets back up to her feet despite it, just as I reach my destination.
Languished Longing sizes me up. And simply offers a single word, instructional and defiant. “No.” But even that is cut short as I punch, hard as I can, darksteel gauntlet in hand, straight into her esophagus. Even as I do so, someone behind me puts their hands around my neck, and as Languished keels over for a moment before righting herself, and bringing an uppercut to my jaw. It connects, and as it does so, whoever is behind me kicks me behind the knees, bringing me down. I roll forward with the momentum, tackling Languished and dragging her down with me, throwing punch after punch into whatever slab of meat and flesh I could connect with. Whoever was behind me falls atop the heap, likely pushed from behind as well, and it turns into a messy tangle of limbs and beat-downs.
Time was drawing short. Whipmistress would turn soon. Come on, Wavey, top five. Shoot for top five. I tell myself, gritting my teeth as someone gets ahold of my left hand and dislocates a thumb, and begins trying to twist my arm to break or dislocate it. I won’t let them, and bring my head to bear in a headbutt against whatever offending Sister in Pain has decided to make me their target. To my surprise, Regent of Regret had made it up the line and was deadset on taking a spot.
“Purity and Pain!” Whipmistress calls. Everyone stops, and stands at attention, falling in line - the last few seconds of jostling for position met with little more than shoulder checks and grunts. I quickly relocate my thumb with my free hand, wipe the blood from my nose, and stand as tall and defiant as I am able as I take note of my position out of the corner of my eyes.
Third.
Third is good.
Languish claimed first, like usual. Beloved of Agony, with the homefield advantage of already being in the front, was second. And then there was me. Harwae’vyll Ossndar. First Heir of Punishment, of the Bearers of Black Hearts. Always preferred ‘Heir of Suffering’, though, even if it wasn’t quite as literal as her namesake. Everyone had their own play on things. Lust for Life - who was next in line, nursing her broken ankle, was really Passion for Heartbeats - but namesakes were hardly ever so literal. She hisses in pain as she remains at attention, like the rest of us, silent as the dead.
Whipmistress has turned by now. Looks at the line. And smiles, thin and greedy, like she always does. “Let us see who has born the capacity for pain, and who can bear it.” Down the line she goes, starting with Languished. “Front Captain.” Whipmistress says, as she stabs a tattoo of a cat of nine tails dripping with blood with the tip of a quill - just enough to draw enough blood to write her name and assignment. She does the same with Beloved. “Scout Captain.”
Then, to me. She looks in my eyes. Locks with them. A conversation I don’t even know the nature of takes place, and I can feel my soul sink just a little bit. She knows something I don’t. It brings her doubt. Derision. I can see it. I can feel it. “Guard Captain.” She finally says. A frown tugs at my features, but I refuse to give it power. Guard duty. Again. Maiden, give me purpose, and revel in my annoyance.
Whipmistress moves to Lust. Looks at her ankle. Looks at me. Smirks. “Guard.” She utters. And then moves down the line. I turn, slightly, to Lust, and out of the corner of my mouth whisper as the Whipmistress falls further down the linen. “Want me to set that later?”
She hisses back. “I know how to set a ankle.”
“Flex the knee, forefoot in one hand, heel in the other, press with the-”
“I said I know how to set a fecking ankle.” She spits.
I smirk. “You’ll get more practice under me with that attitude. If I choose to relieve you, you will be relieved. If I choose to break you, you will be broken. And if I choose to use you, you will be used.” All out of the corner of my mouth as I look dead ahead. I can hear Languished likewise ensuring her Scout Captain knows to get her proper reports.
As Whipmistress nears the end of the line, I close my eyes to hear what come, like one would to pause and listen to the rustling of leaves or the falling of rain. There is the usual Whipmistress’s bellow. “Scorn and derision! Faithless and False!” A loud smack is heard. Smile twitches at my lips. Such a beautiful sound. “All of you are lacking in capacity for pain. You! Break her legs.” She demands one of the meeker of our group. Some of them were simply Adepts in Pain, on their first assignment.
‘But, we are to march soon, and-’ This time the crack of a whip. Again. Again. And again.
And again.
And again.
Wimpers turn to cries turn to blood curdling yells. Whoever it is near the end of the line is reduced to a whimper after over a dozen lashes. I never really keep count. I just enjoy it when it starts to sound wet with blood and viscera as it scrapes into her back yet again. Gurgled protests could be heard, just barely. Maybe she’d die. If so, she was too weak to begin with.
Only then did the Whipmistress turn to the second to last. “Break your leg and take her to the infirmary.” She demands. Whoever it is has enough sense to follow through, and a shriek of pain is let loose shortly after. Lust scoffs, next to me, as if disappointed in a lack of further instruction. I’d be the first to admit that we could endure more.
Then Whipmistress addresses the rest of us. “As we will be marching on an incursion, and the Maiden’s Grace is benevolent on this day, you will practice self-flagellation within your own tolerance levels each night on the march rather than the standard glassdancing.” She informs. “None are to share in pain above their tolerance, and all will be present by the end of the tenday in fighting form. Suffer the absence of torture, girls, I know you can do it.” Heavy with sarcasm as always, with a thick Dambrai drawl.
But then something odd happens.
I remember this happening before. Where did this happen? When? It’s - like it’s on the tip of my tongue. Like I know what happens. Where it happens. When it happens, why it-
Why did…
What is… what is this feeling? This, memory I live? What… why am I…?
Redrilzora pats me on the back with a solid 'slap', and a gruff grunt. A muscled beast of a Crinti looming over me. "You've come along ways, runt." She says to me in that motherly tone of admonished approval. "Well worth the price."
For some reason I could never really stand my own against her. Something in me always turned sheepish, awkward, like I'd somehow failed her and hadn't figured out how yet. "I'm... You know I'm ever thankful, mother."
"I know." She says, with another huff. "I know. C'mon. I've got somethin' forya." She leads me down the hall to the small armory of the barony. Unlocks it, turns the nob, and slams the door open like only she can. I remember it being dusty. Wait, why do I remember something currently happen-
"My old breastplate." She announces. On it, is a scene of a dark elf fighting two flanking gold dragons. Below, the scene of a dolphin jumping over a glittering bay, another dark elf swimming alongside them. "It'll do. Tell me, runt." She says, still adjacent to me, not quite looking at me. "What is most important?"
"Vindication." Comes my reply, trying to put a little oomph in it.
"VINDICATION!" The thick Crinti bellows like a declaration to the world. "To be SURE. CERTAIN! Of whatchya know to be True." She actually sounds proud. "I know yer gonna bring me Vindication. Harwae'vyll." She uses my name. I can't help but smile a bit at the thought of it.
[To be continued - in the Forest of Amtar.]
