Captivity ((OPEN if you wanna post))

Darkness. That moment of darkness when you begin to wake up from a billy club to the head. That last moment of peace before your eyes begin to adjust and your body begins to feel. A moment always far too brief. Fel. It had been a long time since she had found herself in this situation.

Step one, sight. The first thing you push your body to pull through with. It was dark. It was damp. Cliche. The room was dimmly lit by felfire toarches and crystals of Eredar green. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she scanned the room. It didn't seem like the elvish architecture she had seen in the city. Likely, she was no longer in it, or if she was, this was some far older underground part of the city she didn't know. All around her there were prisoners. Some, huddled in against the walls, others hanging from their arms from the walls and ceiling. Most were Shal'dorei, some, of the races of both the alliance and horde. None seemed to be in good shape. Many of the Shal'dorei seemed to have either turned to Withered, or were in the process of becoming one. Poor wretches. Many more, hung dead.

Step two, self evaluate. Her head hurt. She could feel the dry blood crack as she turned her neck to the side. Nothing serious. All that could be expected, really. Her neck. Cold steel. She gently moved her head forward. She heard the jingle of chains and felt the sudden jerking end to her movement. Keep scanning. Body naked. Mechanical arm gone. Useful arm shackled to the chain that bound her hooves together. She didn't seem to be injured. Yet. She tried to call on the Light. She tried to call on the elements. Nothing. One way or another, she was cut off from magic. She hadn't expected anything different. 

Step three, wait, and think happy thoughts. Soon enough her captors would arrive and the fun would begin. She thought back to the last moments before she was knocked out. The Servitors were clear. At least they had gotten away from the ambush. She hoped that they had found safety. Many of her party were badly wounded. It didn't seem like they had been captured. None were in the room with her. She smiled. She chuckled. She had done her job. She could suffer through whatever torment was to come, and could once again say hello to Death with a smile. She looked up at the ceiling and spoke in her mind. "Is this it, my dearest friend? Is it our fate to fall holding the retreat?" If it was, it was a welcome end. 

It wasn't long before the Nightborne iquisitor came to see her. Vile looking creatures, these Nightborne. Of all the breeds of elves she had knows, these were by far the least appealing. He kneeled infront of her and begun his interrogation.

"You're going to tell me where you're rebels hide" he said in rather good common.

Iz smiled and replied "I am?"

"Yes, you are."

Iz let out a chuckle and smiled sweetly at the elf. "You isn't very good at this, is you? You tortor people here, and think I is tell you cause you ask?"

The elf punched her across the face. It wasn't really as strong as she expected. "You're going to die here. Might as well make it an easy death."

"Is not much incentive for I to talk then, is it?" she asked, holding up her smile "Can I speaks to you superior please? Maybe one who has experience in this?"

As expected, this earned Iz a fair beating. She smiled through it. There really was no reason captivity couldn't be fun. After all, the worst was yet to come.  

Iz did all she could do. She sat. She stretched as well as she could. She curled up into a ball and attempted to sleep. It was the long wait. She knew her Nightborne captors didn’t need her. There had been a few futile attempts to extract information from her just meant to measure her and she had proven to be far too much trouble. After all, the captured Nightborne were far more cooperative and knew far more than she did. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she could even make her way back to the tavern that they had used as a hideout. The Nightborne, however were all too eager to give up what they knew when they found themselves at the edge of loosing themselves and turning into Withered. Pathetic race, elves. With all of their gifts, they were just so prone to becoming dependent on magic.

 It was the long wait. By her count it was probably close to a week since she had been taken. A week during which she had received the necessary beatings and been fed the bare minimum to keep her alive. No serious damage. Not yet anyway. She wasn’t sure just why she was being kept alive. Perhaps it was just for the sadistic pleasure of her elvish captors. Perhaps, her fate had yet to reveal itself. She knew there was more, lurking in that fucking green glow. Always out of sight. Always watching.

 By now she knew that there had been five others in the room with her. Five she could communicate with anyway. Marne Steelhoof of the Highmountain tauren, Krull Spineshatter of Durotar, Jin’ta of the Darkspear, Jorgen Jenssen of  Lordaeron decent and Shel Sprinklesprocket or Gnomeregon. Jin’ta had been taken away many hours before and hadn’t been brought back. They all feared the worst. They had all committed each other’s names, and that of their family members to memory. Should one ever get out of there, all of them would, in a way.

 Izzy didn't hope to be rescued. It wasn’t hope worth hanging on to. She knew that if the Servitors could, they would come for her. She also knew, or at least hoped, that if they couldn't they wouldn't do anything stupid in a pointless attempt. She thought of her family on Draenor. She thought of her family on Azeroth. Folcan, Zerov, Sky, Lammy, M, Fro, Jo, Doggo…all the Servitors. She had come to love them more than most of them would ever know. Her hope was that if they weren’t able to come for her, they would bury her memory and move on. Specially Folcan. Deep down she knew that should she die, Folcan would be broken beyond repair. His life, was the main reason for her to hang onto her own.

 It wasn’t torture. It was just captivity. It wasn’t torture until she heard hooves on stone and an evil gleeful laugh echoed in the dark. Whether her captors had planned it or it was just a sick coincidence of life, she didn’t know. However, one fall of a hoof, one cackle was all it took to torture the very soul of a Draenic mother.

Zuriah crouched under the rain like a statue, hidden in the morning fog. She kept watch over her mother’s house from afar, waiting for it to be empty. She was really in no mood to explain herself to anyone. Folcan wasn’t there. He hadn’t been in since she had returned to the Hinterlands, but the elf might be. When she was finally sure that no one was home she descended like a wraith in the mist towards the front door and let herself in. She was allowed through her mother’s wards and the lock was easy enough to manipulate magically.

She needed things. Items of her mothers’. Other than emotional or financial value, most people thought little of items. She, however, knew that even the plainest of trinket had great value. Items, you see, slowly bound to their owners soul. There was a reason why a warrior was best with his own blade. Of course, there were physical properties involved, but if you gave them their sword, or one identical, they would always be more proficient with their own. Items of power would develop this bond faster. Perhaps that was why the mortal races only saw those bonds in items of enormous power. They just didn't have time to bond with a trinket. Her mother, however, had had millennia to bond with all kinds of things. Zuriah just needed to find them. She needed items which were old. Relics which had been with her mother for a very long time or that were or particular value to her.

She was subtle at first, pacing through the house looking for the obvious. Izarre’s old armor. She had worn, bled and fought in it for ages. Yes, that would do nicely. She looked over Izarre’s two-handed Vindicator hammer considering it for a long time, before deciding that it was far too heavy for her to carry. No. Instead, she took one of the gauntlets and put it on her right hand, over her padded glove. That would do nicely. Little else was painfully obvious. She closed her eyes, and let her magic scan the home for what she needed. Old…powerful…full of pain. She walked slowly until she sensed what she wanted. She lifted a hand and let out a bolt of arcane energy, shattering a floorboard. How unlike mother to hide things. She reached inside and drew a small chest and opened it slowly. Her bright eyes scanned the item inside carefully.  A traditional Kinsblood Dagger. She had heard of such things but had never seen one. She didn’t even know her mother had one, or need for one. How unlike mother to have that kind of secrets. Sliding it in her belt she continued pacing with her eyes closed. Her hand was lead to a drawer of Izarre’s dresser. Opening it, her fingers found the Crimson and Gold fabric of Izarre’s tabard. Interesting. Plain cloth, so new, bound so strongly. She took it. Finally her hooves led her to Izarre and Folcan’s bedroom. A wall. She tapped it with her staff listening for what she needed. Without putting a lot of effort into it she tried moving the section of bricks blocking the hidden chamber. It was heavy. Not worth the effort. Setting her staff to the bricks she let loose an arcane projectile, smashing the brick to pieces. The hidden chamber was practically a (now rather ruined) shrine and inside was a book. Mother’s memories. She recognized it instantly. That would work nicely.

Putting it in her pack she turned to leave. That should be enough and Frovelos was probably waiting for her. Drawing a sheet of parchment from her bag, she set her finger to it and begun to write in arcane letters.

 “Dearest future daddy,

Took some of mothers’ things to find her. You might get them back sometime. Sorry about the mess. Feel free to fix it when you have time. Find me through Frovelos.

Your beloved future daughter,

Z”

She took a steak knife, stabbed the note to the front door, and left.

Folcan's footfalls were loud and deliberate, his full plate armor clanking almost menacingly.  The large human man's face was set with determination as he stalked the streets of Dalaran, looking for someone in particular.  He followed the direction Frovelos had left for him, and found her in a shaded alleyway, Frovelos standing with her.  He made his way down the street, knowing that they heard him.  He was beyond trying to be stealthy and quiet at this point.  Everything had built up in him, and up, and up, and this was the last bit of kindling on the fire.  It had burst into flame when he found out about Izarre going missing, and the attitude that some had had about it.

Damn orders, damn chain of command.  He was going after Izarre.  And anyone that wanted to help him was welcome.

He stepped up right behind Zuriah, and announced himself.

"Hello, step daughter."

She didn't need to look up to know what she already knew, and yet, how to avoid it. She lifted her gaze towards the laughter and waited for the hoof steps to bring the large Man'ari into view. She hadn't thought it possible but her the unnecessary confirmation finished breaking her heart. Her gaze dropped and after a few more hoof falls on the stone floor she could see his hooves and sickening red skin. A large clawed hand grabbed one of her horns and jerked her head up and she looked right into her jailors eyes. 

"Well, isn't this an unexpected pleasure." He said in pure Eredun. Every Draenei could understand it even though most wouldn't admit it. "I might even need to reward these elven wretches for this."

Iz smiled a genuine smile. A smile both full of hate and love. She spoke in Draenic as pure as she could muster and in a strangely sweet voice. "It's always nice to see you, my dear boy." She meant that and he knew it to be true. Few things brought out a Man'ari's hatred like real love and no matter what might have happened a mother's love could never be taken from her. 

The Man'ari smashed her head back against the stone wall and snarled "Go ahead, smile. We're going to have fun, you and I. Before you die, before we harvest you, you're going to wish you hadn't whored yourself out to my father."

Somewhere, in the dark, a son reveled in his mothers' pain.

Somewhere, far away, a daughter cut her mothers' body in half. 

Time goes by when you're in captivity, neither quickly or slowly. It just goes by with the sickening flicker of fel-green torches. Krull and Jorgen had been taken away, and like Jin'ta, had never returned.  Her jailer, her tormentor, however, did come back and he did so often. He knew her far too well to bother with physical torture. Izarre didn't fear pain or death. She wasn't going to give them any information. Then again, he didn't want any information even if the Nightborne did. No, he just enjoyed her pain. He would come by and sit. He would force her to look into his eyes as he told her about some world that had been burned to a cinder by the Legion or the details of the death of someone she had known. There, in the dark, hearing the details of the darkness of her blood she would slowly fade until it was her turn to be dragged away to meet her end. 

Only the gnome and the tauren remained. While they were alone, Izarre would serve as a translator and bridge between the three. None of them really wanted to talk, but they, more than she, needed it. She had suffered captivity before. She had suffered far worse in the past. But above all, she had lived a thousand good lifetimes and was ready to leave it with a smile. One of the many gifts of being ageless.  

Shelly had been a teenage soldier during the Northrend campaign. It wasn’t a standard practice for the Alliance to send teenagers to the front, but Shelly had volunteered, and being a prodigy in manipulating fire (a much sought after gift in the frozen north) they had gladly taken her. She had dedicated herself to training young mages since. That was of course, until the Legion had returned. Dying in the dark was a harsh way to end her return to active duty. She would likely never be a mother and that alone hurt more than the lashes of her captors.

Marne on the other hand wasn’t and had never been a fighter. He was a man a peace, a man of nature. Most would have called him a druid but he would say that he would do what he could to heal the land with whatever tools he had available. He was just the kind of person Izzy looked up to, and hated to see die in war. She had always longed for peace and even though she knew that would never be a choice for her she cherished those who tread that path.  

They shared their lives in the darkness. They shared their hopes and their dreams which would likely be lost to that same dark. They remembered the dreams of those who had already been lost. Even if it was only for a few more hours or days, those dreams would remain alive.

They came again and dragged another into the darkness. Only the gnome and tauren remained.

((Happening give or take in real time right now))

Izarre was dragged, chained as she was, across the stone floor by a pair of Nightborne. Dazed from a blow to the head and weak as she was she tried to keep track of her location.  Even though she was about to die, the fight in her would be the last thing to go. Somehow, if she managed to escape she would come back for her cellmates.

She was finally dragged into a large room which was lit more brightly by a large green crystal and fel torches. Cages hung from the ceiling. She couldn't tell if they were occupied from where she lay on the ground but she didn’t hear a whimper or breath. In the corner she could see a pile of corpses and she thought that in it she could see the tortured, lifeless face of Jorgen looking back at her.  

She didn’t have much more time to examine her surroundings before the Nightborne begun to manipulate her chains. She felt them attack another chain to that which connected the shackles above her hooves. She felt them remove the shackle from her wrist. This was her chance. She only needed one hand to kill an elf. She put what strength she had into a fist that swung at her closest captor but as she swung she was pulled off the ground by her legs and missed completely. They left her to dangle upside down for a good amount of time. There was little she could do with one arm, no use of her magic and in her weakened state. Try as she might, there was no getting loose.  

It wasn't long before her tormentor arrived with a scrawny looking Eredar. "It's been lovely catching up with you Mother, but its about time we rid existence of you. Don't worry. We'll be sure to put your soul to good use." He sneered and laughed as his companion begun to try to pull her soul from her body. Try as he might, however, her spirit remained unbroken and strong. She would be a fighter until the end. "Still holding on? To what? Another world that will burn around you?" He gave her the evilest of smiles and stepped up to her. "Well then we'll just have to weaken you some more." He took a couple of steps closer and gripped one of her horns. Izarre's screams echoed through the structure as her horn was snapped from her head. 

Once they got Izarre into the Infirmary and settled, Folcan sat on a stool beside her, his gauntlets off, but the rest of his armor on, holding her hand. He did all he could to bolster Iz's life while Ahlam, Iz's "shaman sister" did all she could to heal his love's body. Folcan softly prayed, over and over, hoping for Ahlam's efforts to work, and Iz to hear him, and cling to life. He knew, firsthand, that her mental and spiritual recovery would take much longer, but that it could be done. She just needed tomcomemback to them.

Folcan had the worst of fears about the identity of the manari. A long lost brother? Former lover? Or worse, a child, or one she had taught, and fell to the Legion. He had no idea, but he also knew whoever it was, it had hurt Iz far deeper than even the horn that had been broken from her head and skewered her. He just kept holding her hand, promising her he would be there, always.

He never left her side, sitting on that stool in the infirmary. No matter how his hand, the one that grabbed the fel chain, throbbed; no matter how the burns from the Wyrmtongues bile itched; not even exhaustion took from the stool as he waited for her eyes to open again.

Striding into the infirmary some time later after his talk with Sky, Zerov pauses at the entrance. Leaning heavily against the door frame, he glances over towards the two working tirelessly over Izarre, watching them both quietly for a moment before his gaze finally drops to Izarre herself. An almost pained expression passes over his features as he takes in the sight, his brows knitting together in worry. Without a word, he moves further in and seats himself heavily atop one of the stools near the wall across from them, merely offering a muted nod should one of them happen to look his way. 

The draenei refrained from moving closer, both so as to not crowd their efforts nor impose, but remaining in order to assist as needed. Leaning his head back against the wall Z lets loose a quiet sigh, the faint movement eliciting a grimace as the torn metal of his breastplate brushes across the gash left as a reminder of the Eredar's bladed whip. He makes no move to try and remove the armor just yet, merely shifting in place to try and avoid the same mistake.

Despite the physical exhaustion and distant haze of pain, he dutifully remains in his seat, his gaze fixated steadily upon the other three within the room. His thoughts, however, had long since drifted from the confines of the infirmary, an almost glazed look settling over his features. At some point he took up a light, rhythmic tapping with a couple of fingers against his leg, an anxious habit he had picked up long ago. As he watched, a countless stream of silent prayers were offered up to whoever would listen.