[center][b][url=http://www.infinitelooper.com/?v=cFm3wMhjmJ8]Château de D'Aubigne Cellar Depths - Noble's Quarter[/url][/b][/center]

The Lord Sovereign enjoyed a notable pull towards his cup before settling across the stairwell. The guards flanking his location arrayed through various positions along the cellar grounds before levelling their halberds. He did not normally visit the lower levels of the lower gentry, however, the notable subject confined to the wine stockades proved an exception. The casks spanned across various vintages including those hailing from Zagros and Lybim-Tartessos along the Ivalian coastlines.

Aside from their exotic collections, D'Aubigne did earn a handsome living through his banks and financial branchings across Carcassonne. The Aubignes earned as many friends as they did enemies and certainly knew how to live through their ability to collect revenues across multiple continents. In effect, their expanding fortunes established their place as a powerful family even if their titles only slightly placed their locations above petty commoners. That they were [i]persuaded[/i] to house the prisoner only proved their ability to further his objectives throughout Valania Proper.

"Where is he, Inquisitor," Conqvist inquired upon draining his golden goblet, "Where is the prisoner?"

"He is none other than the chained man sitting not ten meters away. We exercised notable precautions to ensure he does not escape. The bastard is, by all stated evidenced, a true heretic as it is known through our sources."

"At last we meet!" The Lord Sovereign seized a moment to refill his emptied goblet before savoring the Lybim-Tartessian vintage, "Your name is ... Uriel, correct? I am certain you've been informed of your being brought here?"

The iron-masked figure turned his head slowly to follow the noble walking amidst the room, fine cloths and shiny gems and trinkets in tow. This one, this one was high. Very high. And, as he began to approach him, it became clear in how he walked towards him, directly, purposefully, with such an air of pride and arrogance, of claiming, stating how he belonged to him with how he stepped and grinned smugly at him, it was clear why he was here. He was here for him.

Then he spoke, drinking deep and emptying his cup. And he asked, and the intelligent, pompous bastard dirtied his holy name with his tongue and breath.

"Yes," he replied, his voice muffled and far less than strong for the malnutrition and torture. "Uriel Delacroix. And, yes, I have been. Your demon-twisters made quite sure to tell me." His voice, even weak, held such... contempt. Loathing. Yet, to be fair, respect. Not fear, a sincere tone of respect for one who had conquered him so well.

[hr]

The Lord Sovereign smirked as he drained his goblet and through smacked lips. The vintage was exceedingly good and during this evening, one could not have enjoyed savoring the grapes found along the Tartessian coastline. The Ivalians always knew where to grow the best fruits and to turn sods of dirt into suitable farmlands. That their gold and seeds also lined his vaults also proved their worth, if only for awhile. The hedonistic society was certainly an abomination as was their religious devotion towards the damnable Ahmenmnian faith. Their colonial possessions were only merely convenience by chance and through the prisoner's efforts, the Valanian coasts would see that Ivalian ventures were duplicated ... [i]in Valania fashion[/i]. Such was the manner, of business.
 
"Mmm, I think not," Conqvist whimsically answered, "Inquisitor Cauchon, what have you told our dear Uriel?"
 
"Enough to be certain that the prisoner understands how far he has fallen below Yadin-Hamon's grace," the Inquisitor flatly answered, unveiling a knife. "His body has already accepted the possessions in associations towards various demonic entities. He must be purged and b..."
 
"Inquisitor Cauchon, there shall be none of that," Conqvist inquired, refilling his cup, "I am certain that as soon as we've ... ohhhhh ... [i]removed his mask[/i], he shall know soon enough ..."

Behind the mask, Uriel smirked. By the divine, his man was as arrogant as he was, if far more vile. At least he had the wit to keep it, though. Both in admiration and disgust he silently mused to himself how both similar and different they really were. The Inquisitor likely sensed it, though nowhere near consciously enough to recognize his dispositions. It was part of why he so particularly disliked him, that his "demon prisoner" was, in some regard, on equal with his lord.

Still... even when he pondered the notion of meeting Conqvuist one day as a child, he had never imagined it quite like this. For all his secret, tiny glances into witchcraft, he had been aware that the self-righteous might smite him for it. He had never expected them to punish him with the same act, though.

Then the King spoke again and his words twisted in Uriel's gut like a knife. Remove it? Why? While some part of him immediately hoped for some tiny relief, this was the same man who had given him the satchel, tormented and insulted him so well. The bastard who ruled over this nation as corrupt and far more intelligently than near any other in centuries. Was it relief, mercy, or perhaps just practicality? Or some new torture? Uriel stared from behind the mask, his gold-brown eyes sharp like some demon's, alert and nervous.

"You are of course, fortunate, Uriel, and I'm uncertain if you [i]truly[/i] realize how much Emperor Aryanpur and all of Sarife wants you dead. We've ensured that his assassins and agents have not discovered your presence here and ... should you ... serve our interests ... aha well ... we shall allow for unquestionable amenities involving your survival. The Sarifen Inquisition would have you burned alive, however, a chance for redemption to atone for your crimes is ... [i]understandably[/i] a possibility."

Uriel stared at the man, his eyes wide, the slightly green-tinted golden-brown, fierce like the "eye" that marked him boring into the king like a monster, a demon, a devil, piercing into the mortal's soul-yet in apprehension, unease. How could he not know how badly they wanted him dead? He was born with at least one daemon, and a nightmarish one at that, bound to him. He was talented at more than one taboo form of magic. What more could there be to him that they would possibly hate or fear more than that...?

It was much worse. Permanent Servitude. Servitude to Serve this man's interests. What interests would this man have for him to complete? He could not operate openly, lest risking him besmearching his name; he could not operate in secret with anyone of real position, he was too recognizeable, and he was no real assassin.

"What... could you possibly want me to do for you?"

"Inquisitor Cauchon, "You have my permission to release his mask. I feel it is time."" Conqvist addressed, "[i]The mask if you please ...[/i]"

The Inquisitor nodded, however, before traversing an inch, found the Sovereign's empty goblet flicker his way. His sighs grew increasingly relaxed following every breath amidst a most amicable gaze. The cellar's stockhold walls and cask conditions yielded aged and furnished ancient vintages no longer in fermentation. He could not have chosen a more suitable location to further his own biddings outside Sarife's ironfisted gaze.

"...and another round if you please," Conqvist handily remarked, belching, "The Tartessian vintage has grown on me ..."

Within minutes, the Cauchon and his Inquisitors had successfully released the straps along the man's head contraption, followed swiftly by motions that involved wriggling away the mask's frontal piece. As the metal cast pried away, the man's dirtied face shone into the light, unveiling his glinting, green-tinted, and golden brown irises. Immediately, upon removal, the man's arms began to shudder and soon his entire body began to shudder in a most violent convulsion.

"You cannot escape the demons, Uriel," Conqvist teased as he patted a hand along the prisoner's neck, "Your physical manifestations present a suitable host towards many and they are bound to your body as your tendons wrap across your bones. Separation shall mean certain death, however, you don't [i]truly[/i] desire such a heretical fate now do you? [i]Do you?![/i]"

The Lord Sovereign's face sadistically twisted and churned into a most satisfying smile even as the shackled prisoner's convulsions grew ever more severe. Across the walls, the shadows flickered uncharacteristically as they morphed into abominous forms, featuring unspeakable ripples and jagged embers. The crackling shadows pulsated and splintered and reached across the walls, almost as if they carried wills of their own and desires to escape. Upon accepting a filled goblet, Conqvist managed another generous pull and comfortably sighed as the smile widened across his finely mustached face. Under his watch, he'd successfully bartered his own terms towards levying adequate time and if time presented itself in kind; the liberties torture yielded would certainly grow aplenty ...

Uriel gasped and writhed, twitching like a dying spider as he failed to control himself, reel his flesh and the maelstrom of spirits latched onto him like leeches with jagged, scrapped blades for teeth and pulled at him like puppet strings. Slowly, he pulled his face up to glare at Conqvist-the only face he could made in that agony, other than sheer terror or despairing agony, either of which would render him unable to answer. His mouth and eyes twitched at random intervals sporadically as he heavily pushed out words in a rough, strained voice. "What... manifestations? What... fate...? [i][b]What do you want from me?![/b][/i]"

Sighing, the Lord Sovereign lowered as the prisoner's spasms grew ever more furious. "What do I want?" he laughed, blaring his whitened teeth, "From you?! [i][b]Hahahahahahaha![/b][/i] I am disappointed, Uriel. You carry latent abilities that could offer great services in Valania's name and yet your bodily manifestations encourage your inability to grasp the potential your latent elemental powers may unleash!"

"[b][i]Lord Sovereign[/i][/b]," a robed servant bearing Crown Watch marked gauntlets inquired, kneeling in absolute obedience. His eyes did not leave the ground as he spoke, "Our informants are reporting developments near the Nezam Stronghold and have witnessed the Paighan Conscript Battalions and the Sarifen Aristocrats escalate their conflicts against the Nezam. In a matter of hours, the Prince will find himself utterly alone and without any friends. A beleugered and half-strengthed Nezam orta has also taken refuge within the Chateau and are engaged against encroaching Paighan Battalions. 

Elsewhere, the professionals of interest. Thus far, the assassin has not consumed any food or drink and remains in the company of two seemingly insignificant nobles, to whom we presumable are her companions. Three of your agents also spotted the mounted swivel cannon leader's arrival and he has repeatedly inquired towards uncovering the Ecuyer's whereaouts. The Lady Hurrassein of the Hurrassein Powder Company was also last seen in his company. We urgently ... [i]admonish[/i] your departure."

"Thank you Chevalier. Inform the Crown Watch I shall make my leave on the hour. Prepare the men and await my arrival ..."