((Please note, this post regards the aftermath of torture suffered by Askier as part of a present arc. I have kept the specifics of what happened vague and only described the results, but I wanted to warn anyone whom might be uncomfortable with such a theme so they could avoid the following contents.))
Pain. That was the all-consuming thought present inside the mind of the miqo’te.  His long, brown hair was now oily and wet with the spray of the sea. And blood.
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The miqo’te’s left eye was swollen shut, a bleeding bruise encasing the optic while his right eye could barely open, revealing a sliver of gold as the dilated pupil stared out into the dark room, seeing the trails of liquid that pooled around his naked frame. Red liquid. The miqo’te’s blood.
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The ruined mess of a miqo’te lay with his back pressed against the hard floor, his head dangling awkwardly as the stocks held his neck and remaining hand within their tight embrace, dried blood covering the dark, wooden surface. The chains of his shackles clanked as the ship listed to and fro at the sea’s desire, the blood covered tools of torture screeching against wood as they slid back and forth across the wooden deck. And all the while, the sound of a strong wind moaned through small slips in the wood.
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Deep gashes and countless bruises crossed, and connected over the ashen flesh of the miqo’te’s body, dried and wet blood both running in rivulets alongside one another, forming waving lines, as if they were rivers upon a map.
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The miqo’te’s tail was still connected to the base of his spine and was wrapped around his left thigh, blood dried on the fur, several of the vertebra snapped in twain from when the monster had tried to rip it off. The tail remained attached though, the muscles so cramped that he could not have unwrapped the tail even if he wanted too. Though the miqo'te's suffering had increased after refusing to let the tail be torn off without a struggle.Â
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The air was filled with the sounds of the rolling ocean and the agonized gasps that escaped the miqo’te’s ruined lips as the lungs tried to suck in air without expanding or contracting so they would not shift the muscle around them and disturb the cracked ribs.Â
The miqo’te seemed more dead than alive as his chest barely rose over and over for hours on end, limbs bruised and broken. Never stirring.
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Only inside the miqo’te’s mind, in some deep recess, shielded from the pain and agony of the body, was there a part of Askier left. A tiny, little portion that clung desperately to what made Askier, Askier.
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Already parts of his ego had been beaten and tortured out of him. His arrogance, his haughty attitude, his sly wit. Those had been broken first. His pride and confidence had failed next.Â
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The parts of his personality that remained were few, but they were strong. His intelligence remained, his hatred too, he had re-discovered his restraint, and strengthened his persistence. They weren’t much, just splintered fractions of what had once been a whole person, but they were what kept him going and they were safe.  While nearly every part of his personality was deteriorating, drowning in pain and misery, the parts that endured were sheltered by his promise to Roen.Â
The promise he had made to her during their brief conversation before Crim had tortured him over and over to this stare, broken his flesh and mind.Â
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He had promised not to die and leave Roen alone with the monster.Â
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And what little remained of Askier's conscious had no intention of breaking that promise.
Pain. That was the all-consuming thought present inside the mind of the miqo’te.  His long, brown hair was now oily and wet with the spray of the sea. And blood.
Â
The miqo’te’s left eye was swollen shut, a bleeding bruise encasing the optic while his right eye could barely open, revealing a sliver of gold as the dilated pupil stared out into the dark room, seeing the trails of liquid that pooled around his naked frame. Red liquid. The miqo’te’s blood.
Â
The ruined mess of a miqo’te lay with his back pressed against the hard floor, his head dangling awkwardly as the stocks held his neck and remaining hand within their tight embrace, dried blood covering the dark, wooden surface. The chains of his shackles clanked as the ship listed to and fro at the sea’s desire, the blood covered tools of torture screeching against wood as they slid back and forth across the wooden deck. And all the while, the sound of a strong wind moaned through small slips in the wood.
Â
Deep gashes and countless bruises crossed, and connected over the ashen flesh of the miqo’te’s body, dried and wet blood both running in rivulets alongside one another, forming waving lines, as if they were rivers upon a map.
Â
The miqo’te’s tail was still connected to the base of his spine and was wrapped around his left thigh, blood dried on the fur, several of the vertebra snapped in twain from when the monster had tried to rip it off. The tail remained attached though, the muscles so cramped that he could not have unwrapped the tail even if he wanted too. Though the miqo'te's suffering had increased after refusing to let the tail be torn off without a struggle.Â
Â
The air was filled with the sounds of the rolling ocean and the agonized gasps that escaped the miqo’te’s ruined lips as the lungs tried to suck in air without expanding or contracting so they would not shift the muscle around them and disturb the cracked ribs.Â
The miqo’te seemed more dead than alive as his chest barely rose over and over for hours on end, limbs bruised and broken. Never stirring.
Â
Only inside the miqo’te’s mind, in some deep recess, shielded from the pain and agony of the body, was there a part of Askier left. A tiny, little portion that clung desperately to what made Askier, Askier.
Â
Already parts of his ego had been beaten and tortured out of him. His arrogance, his haughty attitude, his sly wit. Those had been broken first. His pride and confidence had failed next.Â
Â
The parts of his personality that remained were few, but they were strong. His intelligence remained, his hatred too, he had re-discovered his restraint, and strengthened his persistence. They weren’t much, just splintered fractions of what had once been a whole person, but they were what kept him going and they were safe.  While nearly every part of his personality was deteriorating, drowning in pain and misery, the parts that endured were sheltered by his promise to Roen.Â
The promise he had made to her during their brief conversation before Crim had tortured him over and over to this stare, broken his flesh and mind.Â
Â
He had promised not to die and leave Roen alone with the monster.Â
Â
And what little remained of Askier's conscious had no intention of breaking that promise.
