Prompt Week 37: Zhent's Lair, Harper's Way
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Forgotten Realms setting of D&D, but the characters in here are from a game and of my own creation. Any player characters from the game have been loaned out with permission from their players. I receive no money for this endeavor. Notes, explanations, and reply responses will be at: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php?app=forums&module=forums§ion=findpost&pid=228040. Thistle grimaced as she pulled against the chains that held her to the ceiling of her cell. Despite its diminutive size, she still couldn't manage to reach far enough to get a foot on the wall in order to gain some sort of support. Her poor wrists and arms were feeling the strain of her slight thirty-three pounds hanging solely from them. She didn't bother to look down at the floor: she knew there was a good five foot drop between her own bare feet and it. She had been drugged by the time she was placed here after they had stripped her down of any equipment and armor; at least they left her her clothing that was worn underneath the armor. Maybe she would have to think to enchant her clothing a bit next time the opportunity arised. First things first, she'd have to get out of this predicament of a jam then see about finding her equipment. Smiling tersely to herself as she still struggled to find some way to gain any precarious perch on a wall the halfling could only praise Tymora for small kindnesses. If this was the worst they did to her then she was beyond fortunate: neither the Black Hand nor the Banites were known for their kind and considerate treatment of prisoners.
“Ah. If it isn't the infamous
Heart of the Silver Hand and the
Annoyance of the Zhentarium herself. What do we owe the pleasure of the visit of such an august young woman as yourself?” Thistle looked over as a richly deep and sardonically polite masculine voice rolled the sobriquets in a smoothly
thunderously manner across the cell block. A tall blonde man in black armor half-bowed mockingly as he pulled a chair in front of her iron-gated barred cell. “I do hope the accommodations were acceptable Miss Thistledown, this place doesn't often receive young ladies as visitors often.” Thistle tried to keep from glaring at the
far more infamous than herself Fzoul Chembryl as he sat down. Why would the patriarch of the church of Bane feel the need to come mock her? True, he was the head of the Zhentarium as well, but still this was just a bit much.
“They've been what they are. I must admit I'm a bit surprised to see you decided to
visit here at the same time as well. I thought you'd be busy elsewhere trying to take over Faerun or some other scheme hatching at Bane's behest.” Thistle tried to keep a sharp edge of irritation out of her words as she attempted to speak civilly to her tormentor. If she could just find a perch, she might be able to walk up the wall enough that she could start to attempt to wiggle out of her shackles. If she could just stretch her foot another inch or two, maybe she could make it. She made no effort to disguise her attempts, let them laugh at her, she'd find a way to do it. That was one thing every Shadowdale Harper had in common, they would find a way to get things accomplished- even if it killed them in the process. “I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to let me know where my things are would you? I do need to work on some doll clothes.” Her query was answered with a sharp laugh as the
Chosen of Bane threw his head back from the force of it. Well it seemed she was amusing then, now if it could buy her either some time or an answer she'd be happy.
“You are indeed as charming and quaint as
that man
described. It's a pity that I can't go ahead with your execution for all the crimes you have committed against the Church of Bane, as well as the people of the Zhentarium and Zhentil Keep. You have caused quite the commotion for such a
tiny little girl.” Despite the mirth ringing in his laughter, Fzoul's calmly stated words sent chills up Thistle's spine. The casual matter of fact-ness about them was heart-stoppingly frightening. She knew he was a self-centered tyrant, but she had underestimated the depths of his cruelty. Personally, she hardly considered stopping invasion attempts on her home; freeing enslaved and captured peoples from lives of drudgery as well as abuse; and thwarting plans to start wars in other countries in order to destabilize them crimes. “Still, I did give my word that I would stave off such joyous occasions until I had a chance to properly chat with you. You are also quite fortunate that I consider it horrible manners to kill a woman whose upcoming nuptials you are invited to
before the event.”
She blinked profusely as her feet fell limply dangling beneath her. She most assuredly hadn't invited this man to her upcoming wedding... She might have considered it if he wasn't such a heartless, evil bastard. So who did invite him? Was he possibly thinking about reforming from his evil and ruthless ways? Tymora, that would be nice to hear.
“Your associates should be hunting your location down before much longer. I do hope you've had a pleasant stay Miss Thistledown. I trust you will be seeing yourself out, although do feel free to
hang around if you want stay a while longer. I would hate to think that the accommodations were that horrible to drive you to feel like one had to leave as soon as one politely possibly could.”
