Plick, plock, plick, plock, plick.
For long, this was the only noise disturbing the thick silence of the room plunged into darkness. The rhythm was implacable, and it carried on for longer than the mind can focus on it. Kahn'a could not even confirm whether this was water or his own blood dripping like so. He did not care. He did not care much then, but be left alone. He was cold, aching, battered, fatigued, but he was still there, still conscious. It was not adrenaline or even hope that kept him up when he should have passed out. No, it was guilt.
An insidious, slimy warmth creeping on his body, but it was merely another ailment amongst others more concerning. Yet... it kept Kahn'a awake. He could simply not oversee what he had done, well, said rather. He had the choice to keep silent, but the longer the interrogation dragged out, the weaker the idea sat in his head, only to end up being a folly not to pursue. It was not the first time Kahn'a had told a person about the true nature of the Red Wings, but it was assuredly the first he knew the information he gave away would be used against him. The confession was barely a few words, but they had reached the ears of the sadistic mind Kresha sported. Did she believe him? Probably just enough to stop indulging her sick sense of pleasure.
There was also another worry that occupied a tiny corner of Kahn'a's mind. When she left, the torturer mentioned with delight having to meet someone else; a guest, she called it.
... What was happening? Had someone else strayed off the Captain's orders and got captured? Had they crumbled to the pressure of being on the run, and turned themselves in, much like what Kahn'a did? The possibility was dismaying. Another prisoner meant another person that would without much doubt suffer at the hands of the almighty Kresha. But more importantly, it was another mouth, with words held right behind the teeth. Another mouth to speak, to tell a different tale. It was a danger, a sword floating above the Miqo'te's head and that could drop at any moment. What if the versions did not match? Whether those words carried truth or not, he was persuaded that at the slightest difference in their forced confession, his jester play in front of the impudent queen would resume, a cruel show paid in blood and steel. She told him so.
Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong.
In the dark, Kahn'a laughed.
For long, this was the only noise disturbing the thick silence of the room plunged into darkness. The rhythm was implacable, and it carried on for longer than the mind can focus on it. Kahn'a could not even confirm whether this was water or his own blood dripping like so. He did not care. He did not care much then, but be left alone. He was cold, aching, battered, fatigued, but he was still there, still conscious. It was not adrenaline or even hope that kept him up when he should have passed out. No, it was guilt.
An insidious, slimy warmth creeping on his body, but it was merely another ailment amongst others more concerning. Yet... it kept Kahn'a awake. He could simply not oversee what he had done, well, said rather. He had the choice to keep silent, but the longer the interrogation dragged out, the weaker the idea sat in his head, only to end up being a folly not to pursue. It was not the first time Kahn'a had told a person about the true nature of the Red Wings, but it was assuredly the first he knew the information he gave away would be used against him. The confession was barely a few words, but they had reached the ears of the sadistic mind Kresha sported. Did she believe him? Probably just enough to stop indulging her sick sense of pleasure.
There was also another worry that occupied a tiny corner of Kahn'a's mind. When she left, the torturer mentioned with delight having to meet someone else; a guest, she called it.
... What was happening? Had someone else strayed off the Captain's orders and got captured? Had they crumbled to the pressure of being on the run, and turned themselves in, much like what Kahn'a did? The possibility was dismaying. Another prisoner meant another person that would without much doubt suffer at the hands of the almighty Kresha. But more importantly, it was another mouth, with words held right behind the teeth. Another mouth to speak, to tell a different tale. It was a danger, a sword floating above the Miqo'te's head and that could drop at any moment. What if the versions did not match? Whether those words carried truth or not, he was persuaded that at the slightest difference in their forced confession, his jester play in front of the impudent queen would resume, a cruel show paid in blood and steel. She told him so.
Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong.
In the dark, Kahn'a laughed.
