Vignette: A General

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Vignette: A General Post by Saint-Just on Nov 5, 2011, 1:17am

"You are not being very clear with me, sir. Repeat yourself. Now." Rough, frigid fingers dyed brown by the sun clutched the poorly tied neckerchief of a nondescript seaman with the indifferent, passionless force of a brutal storm, a natural monstrosity bringing ruin without batting a formless eye. Short hair of platinum blonde, once neat yet showing evidence of unchecked growth in recent months, framed the perfect, stoney face of Graham Almsreich, eyes of a blue so light as to be ice itself boring into the distressed countenance of the hapless fool in his grasp. A scarf of ivory tied in the fashion of the Godrites, that is to say by laying one end over the other across one's chest and pinning them at the upper back, vanished into a floor length double-breasted duster of immaculate white, golden buttons shimmering in the lamplight of the tavern. Black boots covered in plates of polished white metal made their presence abundantly known, the left foot firmly planted upon the victim's shattered knee.

"I swear, I don't 'ave a damn-" stuttered the sailor, voice breaking into a cry of agony as Graham violently jerked his head forward, the motion disturbing his wounded leg and sending waves of pain throughout his body.

"Language, sir," chided the ex-general, tonelessly.

"Sorry! I-I don't know anyfing about Mon'e Cristo, m'lord! 'Course it's off the coast, big rock in the middle o' the sea, nofin' more to it!"

"Your report conflicts with that of your fellows. You have sailed there. You have delivered supplies to a man by the appellation of Raphael. If you lie to me, I will cripple you." The threat was delivered with the same dreadful neutrality that Almsreich had consistently employed thus far, its apparent apathy forcing all of the warmth from the sailor's body. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he weakly shook his head from side to side.

"Oh, m'lord, the people there... they swear us to silence... if they knew..."

"If they knew, they would be hard pressed to do worse than I promise to inflict if you fail to satisfy my curiosity. Did you know that all Godrite officers are taught to interrogate? I have touched upon the threshold of pain, sir. You are not beyond recovery, however. I can change that with the slightest movements." Drawing a short, minimalistic gladius from one of the sheaths at his waist, Graham placed the blade against the man's ear, resting its frigid edge within the valley formed between cartilage and skull. Slowly, without expression, he drew the sword downward, splitting the soft skin from the man's head with the utmost precision. Wailing in pain the sailor struggled to remain still, lest the damage be worse than necessary. Having fully removed the ear, Graham flicked it from the surface of his sword and, after wiping the blood off on the sailor's tunic, inserted a thumb into the jagged hole and twisted brutally. Just as the man appeared to be nearing unconsciousness, his body unable to cope with the suffering, Graham struck him sharply upon the cheek.

"Speak. Everything you know. This is your last chance."

"Y-y-yes... yes... there's... there's a lift... it's in the rocks... dunno how to ge' in... I swear... we never go in... we just drop stuff off on the rocks an'... an' blokes in bandages ge' 'em..." Blood smeared across his face by Graham's assault, the man at last blacked out. Onlookers promptly pretended to be very much interested in their own activities as Graham rose to his feet, cleaning his hands on a rag abandoned on the edge of the bar counter. Satisfied, he pulled tight gloves of black leather over his hands as he turned to leave, meeting the inquisitive gaze of the bartender with such ferociously righteous self-assurance that the good man at once averted his gaze. Adjusting the swords upon his hips, he smoothed back his hair and stepped into the street. Monte Cristo awaited.