@ercassie 
Lord Abrazimir Dimeathor
House Azrubêl Estate, Lond Côl, Dor-en-Ernil
Day Two, Evening Banquet and Festivities
Dirty socks? You’ve really never done this before, have you? Abrazimir shrugged in easy admission. No, he had never interrogated, tortured, tormented a soul locked in binds and bondage before. That was not his desire nor his mode of operation. And not something he would seek either as a resolution. He was a knight. He preferred open confrontation on equal footing. He did not fear
Arkadhur, especially if the Umbarin had armour and a sword as
Abrazimir did. In fact, the Swan-Knight would openly welcome such a scenario…
Isys though answered for him, to which
Abrazimir just continued to smile coyly at
Arkadhur, the man’s rebuttals and retorts, at least outwardly, having no apparent affect on
Abrazimir. But inside…
Abrazimir would like nothing more but to smash the man’s teeth in. Knock the front ones out at least. That would put an end to his ridiculous, passive-aggressive smiling.
He stayed silent a while, powerful arms crossed over his chest, while
Isys brought up the question again of the missing ship, of a phrase uttered by this prisoner once before;
the ends may justify the means. Their noble elf guest too had some words to say, referencing earlier escape attempts, and even shocked
Abrazimir a bit…in that the elf was himself well versed in cruelty and intimidation, threatening to let
Arkadhur leave with a lot less of himself in hand. Now that was cold and even
Abrazimir felt the ripple of a shiver at hearing one of the Eldar say such a thing, even imply it. But he never took his eyes off of
Arkadhur, nor let his own triumphant half-grin drop.
Then the elf opened a casket of whisky and poured it all over the prisoner, along with the rope, before…seizing a flaming brand.
”Oh, now we’re getting spicy.” Abrazimir commented and took a step back and to the side, not wanting even the toes of his boots to touch the pool of alcoholic, very flammable liquid, pooled at the prisoner’s feet. Fire…it was often the weapon of destruction used by the Enemy. Now it was being turned against one of them. The elf was degrees higher in skill and talent at intimidation than
Abrazimir. But he was learning.
”I too would like to see this so-called commitment. As if any of their kind ever went to the aide of another.” He remarked, just to drive the needle in more on
Arkadhur’s situation.
But as the elf began to approach with the fire,
Isys said something strange. In Quenya. While the Dimaethors spoke Sindarin in their daily speech at home and amongst themselves, Quenya was a language of the learned and the scholarly, two things
Abrazimir would never describe himself as such, or at least put near the top of the list of the things he was. But he knew the words, somewhat, from his tutelage in his youth, before armour, swords, ships, and horses became his sole focus. He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at
Isys, but nowhere else.
Huh. I think I am the least learned in the art of intimidation in this room…
And by the Valar, Ilisys, when did you become such a vicious…
She looked at him back, but he averted his eyes back to
Arkadhur, making it seem as if his decision was…
it is what it is. No, there would be no appeal or succor for the prisoner. The Gondorians whom he thought soft and weak were really about to go through with it, led by one of the Eldar.
Arkadhur seemed to collapse in exhaustion, surrendering to his fate.
Don’t fret, think of all the others your kind has put through this kind of torment. Are you going to be stronger? Worse? The elf got nearer and nearer, setting fire to one of the ropes that held aloft the prisoner, and then…and then…
The Umbarin slipped an arm free of the bindings somehow. And the fire weakening the rope on the other side, allowed
Arkadhur to break free.
”Oh,” Abrazimir feigned surprise, stepping back a pace, as if the beast being set free from his cage somehow frightened him.
This is what he wanted though, no? Toe to toe with this foe, no restraints, no obstacles, just man to man. Fists would speak in place of mouths. And the Umbarin came charging right at him, of all foes. Not the elf certainly. Definitely not the woman, a kind of target the Umbarins preferred to assault in their fragility and weak ego. But right at
him.
But there were ailments in place.
Arkadhur had been a prisoner for some time, exhausted, stiff, aching. Malnourished. And
Abrazimir had come fresh from the joust, where he sustained a good rocking, his head ringing, his body fatigued, his arms feeling like lead weights.
He thought he could withstand
Arkadhur’s onrush. He steeled his feet, he raised an arm to catch the escaped prisoner…
…and was shoved aside.
It should not have been so severe. But crashing into the wall behind him, the ringing in his head amplified to a paralyzing level, momentarily unable to hear, his vision swarming, lights and spots dancing in his gaze. He got up to his feet, just as
Arkadhur would reach the door, and try the key, and find it all…useless.
Abrazimir found his mobility before his hearing, which still rang with a sharp noise, rising back up and watching the prisoner struggle with the door.
Isys’ carefully laid trap unfolding so perfectly.
Abrazimir flashed a grin.
”When should we tell him?” He asked aloud to the others, letting
Arkadhur know…he had been played.
Knowing his own affliction, how it would flare and spike,
Abrazimir was ready now. This is what he had been waiting for. He had been caught off-guard by his own exhaustion earlier but now he was
aware. With a malicious grin and clenched fists, he approached the Umbarin at the door and seized him by the shoulder. No words. No warning. He spun
Arkadhur around and swung with his fist into the Umbarin’s jaw, knocking him against the wall beside the door, sending spittle, blood, perhaps a tooth, onto the floor further on.
Abrazimir did not stop there. He delivered another blow to the face, then to the gut, to double the man over, followed by a fourth blow, an uppercut, to re-straighten the Umbarin out, against the wall. No, he did not let
Arkadhur topple over or collapse in a bundle. He was going to receive this justified chastisement on both feet, a dignity his kind did not often afford their own captives and slaves.
But there was only so much a weakened man could take. And like
Isys said,
Abrazimir wasn’t needlessly cruel, and knew when a man was spent. After the fourth blow,
Abrazimir stepped back, lifted a knee to his chest and kicked
Arkadhur in his ribcage, knocking the wind from his body, careening him back against the stone wall, to bounce off of it harshly and finally be allowed to…fall. At
Abrazimir’s feet. The Swan-Knight though stepped a foot back, with the same derision of not wanting
Arkadhur’s touch or spit or blood upon his boots as he had the spilled alcohol.
Speaking of which…was there anymore?
”I think he learned his lesson. Mostly.” Abrazimir said, turning away and moving back towards
Isys and
Lindesul. His head…was ringing again. And his balance seemed off. It took tremendous focus and willpower to walk in a straight line, for even a dozen paces, back to his friends. He…should not have done that. He blinked several times as if it would clear the forming spots in his vision again. His body protested and whined. But his mind, his heart…they enjoyed that. It was so worth it. He picked up the discarded casket of whisky and gulped at whatever was left, letting loose a growling, satisfied exhale upon it’s consumption, striding back to
Arkadhur, who may or may not be sufficiently recovered by then. There was blood on
Abrazimir’s fist.
”How could you not open the door?” Abrazimir mocked the fallen man.
”It’s the easiest thing in the world. You just…turn…it…” he said, mimicking the motion with his hand.
”You really thought it would be that easy for you? That we’d just leave the key, the right key, in the lock for you?” He toed the man’s battered ribcage with the toe of his boot.
Ugh, he had to touch…it… ”Now that you know how serious we are, you will give us some answers. Give them some answers. Because you see, me…I don’t want you to give the answer. I want you to resist. I want to fight. One on one. Like men. Come on, orc-man. Give me what I want.” He taunted the man further, drinking the whisky some more before dropping the casket on the man to hurry him along.
This was cruelty. It was new to Abrazimir’s experience. And he was…enjoying it.
@Rillewen @ercassie 
Lady Azraindil Dimaethor
House Dimaethor Estate, Lond Côl, Dor-en-Ernil
Day Two, Evening Banquet and Festivities
The whole hall and banquet seemed to stretch far away from her. She still couldn’t believe her eyes that
Toggornir would present such a gift to her. A real animal pelt. Did he not know
Azraindil’s affinity for animals, her love of them? Did no one tell him? She held the pelt in her lap, almost as if she wanted to hug it close to her bosom and embrace it so tightly and apologize for the cruelty carried out upon it.
Oh Trastion, I failed you. I failed us both. I could not protect them all. What should she even do with it?
Toggornir said to wear it when it got colder. Her parents would expect her to wear it at least once in some kind of demonstration to
Toggornir and his family. She could already see it now, the demands, the insistence. All
Azraindil knew is that she did not want to even keep this.
Then she heard
Dulinneth gasp something. She didn’t hear the word but some sound of aghast realization and shock came from her mouth and
Azraindil looked over at her, seeing the look on her friend’s face. Was she feeling the same shock and horror as
Azraindil? That some poor fox had been cruelly pursued and cornered and killed and skinned? No, her silent reaction seemed much more visceral. She knew something.
And her eyes…
Azraindil snapped into form, carefully portraying the dutiful motions of a Lady. She looked back to
Toggornir, chin raised, smiling…but her eyes not showing it.
”Th-thank you again. You must be very brave.” She said to
Toggornir again. And meant it…utterly sarcastically. What bravery was there in hunting a fox? Their bite could hardly wound a grown boy.
”I shall find a fitting place for it. I…don’t want to lose or forget it, as this banquet will go on many hours yet. I think I shall take it on to my room and put it there. For safekeeping.” She said, glancing at her Mother, who was still watching, but seemed content, and offered no protest or rejection of this suggestion, and turned aside to join the adult’s conversation.
She reached over and touched
Linny’s hand, offering her own, rising to her feet.
”Linny, come with me. I want to show you my dress for the masquerade ball coming up.” She suggested, which was an utter lie, as her dress wasn’t even ready for that. But it was a girly thing to do and the boys shouldn’t find it too interesting to try to accompany them.
They both needed a moment. And it pained her too to leave poor
Merry alone with
Toggornir if even for a moment.
”Apologies, my Lord.” She curtsied for
Emeredir.
”We shall try to return shortly. Might you try one of the pomegranates? They’re really good.” She suggested, before tugging
Linny away, like two girls going to fawn over a gift, when in reality…they both needed a moment to showcase disgust and disdain for such a tasteless present.
How could he.
| 
| 
