Tongue Tied

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Hempen coils wrapped tightly around Stil's wrists. Red, purple, and white his skin chaffed horribly gasping for freedom. Sweat pooling around his worn collar and down his spine Stil could do nothing but shiver as the rivulets cascaded downwards.

A quick slap sent him reeling. "Oi, friend as you can see 'e're not much for chitter or chatter." The dark haired one continued his harried assault. Slap after slap Stil could barely make out where he managed to find himself his eyes going from one side of the room to the other to the back of his head, a visual cacophony of stone bricks and a poorly lit room. If that wasn't enough the smell was near rancid enough to send him reeling into surreality.

Snap. Pop. Crunch. The assault continued unrelenting in it's fury. "Not much to talk about either" continued the only other man in the room. "Thirty thousand coins. A hefty debt, and one with a sizable mote of interest on a regular basis. So do tell me where exactly that coinage went." With a final armor-plated backhand the assailant eased up, allowing Stil enough time to gasp pathetically for air.

Stil's battered and bruised eyes were barely able to lock on his attacker, dazed and very much worn. This would mark his third day of torture but to Stil it might as well have been an eternity in Fugue wailing as part of The City of Judgement's walls. His voice coarse and defeated he could barely form the words as they tumbled out of his mouth. "You know exactly where it went, in my shop, and the coins been paid in full."

The dark haired man snapped his wrist deftly cutting into Stil's scarred flesh past a blood and sweat soaked tunic. "You've said that enough times, thank you. But it's still not what I'm supposed to hear. You owe me coin, lots of it. And as I sees it, you've no chance to pay any of it back. So what do you expect me to do?" Slash after slash cut shallow in exposed flesh. "No money, no work, not even a place of work after you managed to burn down yer only way to make ends meet." A distinct change in tone made it very clear that the dark haired man meant every word he said. Rolling his dagger betwixt his fingers he hummed dramatically as if to signify a brilliant idea.

Stil would find no brilliance in it at all. The dark haired man placed his right gauntlet on Stil's head craning it back, throwing the other gauntlet to the ground. Slowly he pried open Stil's mouth, thumb and index finger squeezing his cheeks together taut. In a quick second the dark haired man's blade met Stil's exposed tongue. A searing pain filled all of Stil's senses leaving him tepid as the blade tore and cut through the thick mass of muscle, blood and saliva gushing grossly down his agape mouth and exposed neck. It felt as if all of Toril's combined mass was sent crushing into his mind, his mortal thread threatened to nonexistence.

In an instant Stil's eyes roll back in shock, a pitch darkness overwhelming his sight leading him into unconsciousness. A voice trailing on the curtails of sanity "That's so you don't forget."

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Hysterium

The condensed smell of salty sea air, hickory, cherry, alder, oak, sulfur, and iron finally shook Stil into a thin sliver of consciousness, at once offending his nostrils. The sweet and earthy smells of smoked wood piqued with a salty overtone were masked by the hideously inappropriate intrusion of sulfur and iron creating something truly wretched. Caked sulfur began to chip off Stil's face as he proceeded to turn over onto his bare back. The sharp sting of pain found it's mark as his left eye suddenly shot open; the right black, bruised, and swollen. Fury, fear, and confusion searing his senses, muddling his mind.

Ignoring the millions of protests erupting from his wrung body Stil pushed himself up against what seemed to be stone. 'What... where...' The constant assault on all his senses tested his will to live. 'Alive...?' That sudden realization brought him a modicum of awareness coupled with a strong pang of familiarity. Hundreds of lights swarmed and swayed in his vision, with only one good eye he had no way of gauging where exactly they were. 'Oh Tempus no...' Vision faltering, pain flaring, and mind racing led to a one swift heave to the side; jaw wide open as a torrent of blood, mucous, and bile exploded from his throat emptying an already famished and quite definitely bruised stomach. Clang. In the rush of fluid a coin found it's way straight from Stil's mouth onto the pavement. The pain exploded into an especially made plane of hurt. Enough to force Stil to clamor to his feet anguish propelling him into an exposed sweet smelling barrel of fresh honey mead but not before barely being able to pocket the thin piece of metal.

Cupping both hands furiously ladling the mixture into his mouth Stil realized something past the stinging sensation of torture. 'Oh Tempus no! No! No no no no no no no no! The bastard...! MY TONGUE!' A gurgle erupted from Stil's throat what ought to have been a rage filled grunt came out meek and impotent; honey mead and sick all dripping together back into the open barrel.

Looking at himself Stil assessed the situation a bit more clearly. His blurred vision still unable to make much out other than some tattered rags hanging about his body. 'Need to find out where... where..' his mind still reeling skipped a beat as he eyed a careening drunk coming in his direction. Five feet away Stil took a risky lunge to grab a bottle of moonshine from the drunk's hands. With the feeling of skin on glass Stil grasped the bottle tightly with his left hand all the while feigning a push with his right. Smashed and clearly a feat to have walked this far the drunk merely followed the breeze of Stil's right feint; straight into a pile of refuse and urine soaked straw.

Tearing a large part of cloth from his torn tunic Stil began to pour the already uncorked flask of moonshine directly onto the blood soaked rag. 'Strong stuff...' his nose still partially catching a hint of the smell, a brief memory censored by his lack of a tongue. 'Three... thrice spiced... ru... rum...' A large slosh of rum hit the back of Stil's throat as he corked his mouth with the rum laden rag. Not swallowing and unable to spit the spirits out Stil proceeding to slosh it about, his eyes welling with tears. A harsh necessity for one not willing to part with life so easy. A glob of blood infused spirits hit the ground, splashing wildly, as Stil proceeded to pour more rum down the hatch in a vain effort to ease the pain.

The hundreds of colored lights began to shift into brief focus, all hanging overhead on thick hemp rope. As his vision cleared further he found himself deeper down the alleyway, closer to the familiar bustling sound of a Waterdhaevian midsummer night. 'Lanterns!' Stil thought to himself, realizing that the hundreds of lanterns were from a very specific and familiar shop in the docks district. 'Zor... Zoril... Toril... Zorthil?' Unable to recall the shop or shop owners name the brief attempt at remembering triggered something else entirely. 'Fishing sail... why would I... I don't even... Fish Mansnail...? No still not it... Fish and Snail!" The short memory exercise proved fruitful for Stil as he began to remember the layout of one of his many Waterdhaevian maps. Placing himself a few hundred feet from an inn of some sort and a tavern to the east Stil labored to imagine a direct route from the closest major intersection of Fish Street and Snail Street. 'Direct route to where...' Asking himself did much to alleviate the situation as in an instant he remembered a specific place he had set up a bit off from the Docks Ward in case anything should ever happen. Spurred by the slight turn in fortune amongst a sea of defeat and a field of wounds Stil powered onward forcing his aching legs to work overtime. Snatching a cloak off another lights-out drunkard Stil covered himself against the biting sea wind and placid stares of passerbys.

Exploding to five times it's size in summer months Waterdeep's dock district was well known for stifling clamor at all times of night, allowing Stil enough anonymity to reach his destination. Plotting a course eastward past The Bloody Fist tavern, Fish Street, over a two hour walk eastwards before he even hit the High Road. 'Gods damn it...' Quaffing more of the moonshine Stil proceeded onwards in a barely conscious trudge forward.

The minutes seemed to pass like hours each visual and audible sensation assailing Stil at length. Crowds of humans, dwarves, elves, and halflings predominantly choked the streets but more eccentric oddities were to be found. However, Stil passed them with limited interest as shapes and sounds coalesced into a confusing cacophony disturbing his senses, even more so when he normally would ignore any such thing in Waterdeep as strange was the norm.

Large hulks made of steel and steam alongside clay simulacrum carried large containers of cargo constantly teasing those dozens of denizens below the towering giants with looming death. Seconds later a large gathering of goblins erupted from a nearby warehouse; the only one of note being in the center of the formation wore a headdress made from yuan'ti hide. Stil's attention was soon caught by the incessant baying of a nearby group of gnolls forcing him to cringe at the sound of their high pitched canine screeches all the while taunting his eyes with surreal images; betting on dice with what appeared to be earrings and other adornments still attached to small ears. The shimmering rectangular field of water encasing a merfolk merchant nearly broke as Stil tumbled past his attention fixed on more pertinent pains.

The minutes passed by both slowly and, thanks to frequent spells of amnesia, quite rapidly at times. It took Stil well more than ten minutes to realize that he had finally hit The High Road and was merely a half hour walk away from a particular apartment in the Trades Quarter. Exhausted and well worn Stil's mind no longer had the lubrication of fresh alcohol and was well past his second wind. In this mental tumble he could barely remember where he was going and why. All that remained was a single purpose. Survival.

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((Here's the link to my characters description, any biographical info will be posted in this thread in story format.
Stil Watters - Character Description

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((Here's a link to my characters physical description. Any biographical information will be posted in this thread.

Stil Watters - Character Description

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Apartment 402

Creak. Unoiled hinges and deadbolts forced metal unto metal reverberating a high pitched creak through the room. Layers of dust blanketed the small apartment, the intrusion pushing thin portion of the dust into the air. A square window measuring two meters illuminated the room with the orange light of a bright Waterdhaevian summer sunrise. Each mote of dust performed countless pirouettes as they cascaded downwards highlighted by the light of the morning sun. Tomes of old business ledgers, popular novella, and educational treatises regarding business practices in Waterdeep all lay strewn about the tousled room. A singular table and goose down bed held countless scrolls detailing cultures and business practices as well as notes regarding specific inventory and creatures Stil had encountered over the years, most written in his particular vernacular a Waterdhaevian form of common laced with Illuskan accents gained from an early childhood education graced by a studious mother.
Remembering her image, one of a fully blossomed Illuskan maiden highlighted by and overall fit and graceful appearance, Stil stumbled in his thoughts the pang of nostalgia growing stronger. 'Let the dead rest while the living battle.' Stil mouthed a small prayer to Tempus in an attempt to regain composure.

The eastward facing window had cost Stil a sizable lot on the upkeep of this fourth story apartment. A few rickety ladders, maintained according to Trades Wards standard (money first), were the only thing between Stil and a four story drop. Now focusing at matters at hand Stil swiped a single spoon off the service of the round table, with the other hand pulling the table closer to the bed disturbing the thick layer of dust apparent all about the room.Kneeling down beside the bed Stil moved a small piece of linen off the ground revealing an irregular floorboard. Prying it open with the spoon he reached into the recess and pulled out a rusted metal box about a foot long and two feet wide. Bringing it up from under the bed Stil placed it on the tabletop all the while resting his rump on the dust caked bed. As his behind made hard and fast contact with the bed a plume of smoke erupted behind him, expelling dust backwards and over Stil's head. Stil patiently waited for the dust to settle before he cleared whatever scrolls littered the table, diligently making sure no dust remained. A single ray of light forced Stil to falter, his left eye watering in an instant. In response Stil stood up and closed his shabby linen curtains barely able to hide the sun's piercing gaze before returning to his position on the bed.

The tabletop clear of dust once again was now ready for work. 'Let's see what I've got.' Unable to remember what exactly he had put inside this box Stil flipped the hatch open eager to see what he had prepared for himself six months prior. A small coin purse, a candle, a stack of trade visas, a stack of worn travel passports, and tinderbox lay neatly placed beside an array of small bottles of liquid. Examining the coin purse first Stil let out a faint smile as he revealed ten gold pieces alongside fourteen platinum pieces. 'Atleast now I've a place to start.' Pulling out the candle and balancing it on the table proper proved to be a difficult task for an exhausted and barely breathing Stil, taking him well over a minute to manage it. 'Oh gods I can't believe I'm doing this.' Opening the tinderbox and lighting match Stil lit the candle, exhaling deeply in preparation. Taking out the array of bottles out of the metal box Stil examined them individually identifying each as either a healing salve or restorative of some kind. Taking one of each kind of potion he lined them up beside the candle in a particular order. After a quick perusal through his soon to expire trade visas and travel passports Stil put them aside and once again brought up the spoon.

Stil stared hard into the flame before him, the hand holding the spoon covered in a clean rag torn straight from the cloth bedsheets underneath. Hovering the spoon over the flame with his right hand Stil breathed in deeply in consecutive breaths. Taking the red hot spoon away from the flame Stil apprehensively opened his mouth, the aura of heat around the spoon nearly singing his lips. Placing it further into the very apparent cavity in his mouth Stil tightened all his muscles as near molten metal made contact with ravaged flesh. Tears welled in his eyes, streaming out the sides, as the metal convulsed inside his mouth pushed about his writhing tongue. Letting out a constant primal scream mixed with labored breath his lungs shook from the shock. Time and time again the metal made contact with his tongue and ricocheted to some other portion of his inner mouth scalding the flesh with dozens of fresh burns. The two minutes of torture could not have ended any sooner. Uncorking all four bottles Stil poured them in unison into his gaping mouth clamping it shut once the bottles ran empty. 'Gods! What am I doing?!' His mind howled it's wake followed by dozens of curse words of Illuskan, Tethyrian, and Chondathan origin; a veritable poem of anguish. The pain abated only somewhat; the memory stinging more than the physical hurt now. Ripping off rags that barely covered his naked body, Stil repeated the process on the rest of his open cuts and wounds. Without sutures there would be no way to seal his wounds completely which in time would lead to unavoidably visible scars.

As he finished applying the last of his salves as a topical lotion Stil began to collect his thoughts. Barely recalling the incident of waking up in a pool of his own fluids, completely defecated and beaten, Stil dropped to the floor rummaging through the rags he had just torn off. Pulling out a coin from the mess of refuse he examined it carefully. Emblazoned on one face lay Waterdeep's famous crest, that of a crescent moon over water, and on the other a dragon chasing it's own spiked tail. Tossing it from hand to hand Stil realized something about the coin. 'The weight is... off?' Peering at it with his one good eye he assumed it to be a regular gold piece. Taking to the coin with interest Stil grabbed his ever useful spoon and began scraping away. Layer after layer of gold easily slid off until an iron core half the size of the coin revealed itself. 'I must have been paying my dues with this coin.' He somberly realized. Sighing deeply he placed his head in both hands, rubbing his temples in an attempt to alleviate his persistent migraine. Unimaginably indebted to the wrong Waterdhaevian House, the House of Bladesemmer, Stil tried to piece out any reasonable steps to take.

Having never been in contact with either Taeros or Onya Bladesemmer Stil had no reason to believe that they would personally put a price on his head. Rather he knew what they would do or, more appropriately, what they have done. Stil had survived his encounter with the moneylender he had been in contact with and once word had spread that he managed to survive his captors failed attempt at murder he would be eventually hunted down and killed, innocent or not. With his trade visas and travel passports due to expire within a fortnight and some days Stil had limited options ahead of him. 'All I can do is run, run as far away as I can from this shit before it finds me.' Exhausted and now with a vague plan Stil fell prone onto his bed mind and body finally succumbing to fatigue. His eyes closed and breathing slowed Stil slowly drifted from the clusterfuck that was his new reality.