[COLOR=#BB3344][h2][center]Lord Confessor Rhaegel Waters[/center][/h2][/color]

Pained moans and sobbing voices begging for mercy filled the lower chambers of the Red Keep's dungeons. These sounds were almost always present, but these days there were oh so many more criminals and malcontents for the royal confessors to soften up with their tender attentions. Lord Rhaegel Waters stood before one such man, a filthy old fellow who'd been left in the cramped chamber for the better part of a day with his wrists chained to a ring in the ceiling. There was just enough slack for him to stand on the front half of his feet, though the damp stone smoothed over by countless prisoners before him certainly didn't provide a steady enough footing to make it comfortable. The prisoner's outbursts had already been reduced from indignant denials to panicked pleas and finally to hopeless sobbing, and yet Rhaegel hadn't even begun to hurt him. Those of weaker constitutions could often be broken by the mere promise of pain to come, and he reveled in bringing them to that point of absolute surrender.

[COLOR=#BB3344]"I have a question for you."[/COLOR] Rhaegel's soft and almost sympathetic words were enough to make the prisoner choke back his sobs and look up. Fear filled his eyes, and they couldn't stay still on the Lord Confessor now that the man had looked up from the floor; they flitted back and forth from the torturer to the small table covered in tools as if the man could not decide which was more worthy of his fear. [COLOR=#BB3344]"Yes, they do exactly what you'd think. Worse than that, unless you're particularly imaginative. I'll only ask the question once before we begin, and if I suspect even a hint of a lie..."[/COLOR] Rhaegel trailed off, picking up an outlandishly complex implement from the table. A multitude of metal arms branched off from a the end of a wooden handle, curving out and then in to almost meet at a point about a forearm's length from the handle, each one ending in a barbed hook or a jagged spike or similar nasty-looking embellishments. It was almost useless in the work of causing pain, but the prisoner stared at it with wide eyes as his breathing quickened to hasty pants. A knife would do more damage than the unwieldy implement, but the order to the blacksmith had asked for something that looked like it came straight from a nightmare and that was exactly what had been delivered. A fearful mind could conjure tortures that even the most skilled confessor could not put into practice without outright killing the subject, and the prisoner's whimpers made it clear that he was quite capable of such vivid thoughts.

Rhaegel smiled at the man, letting loose a glimmer of the sadistic pleasure he would take in pulling this mans entrails out slowly and wrapping them around his neck. [COLOR=#BB3344]"I see you understand. Now, answer me truly: what did you do with the stolen gold?"[/COLOR] The prisoner opened his mouth and words spilled out quicker than blood ever could, dribbling spittle and secrets down his chin with all the panic of a man facing his certain demise. Rhaegel kept the smile on his face as he listened, enjoying the product of his work as others might admire a fine painting or tapestry. There was art in suffering, after all. It just took a particular kind of genius to see it.

[hr]

The lords and ladies in the Red Keep gave Rhaegel a wide berth as he strolled back toward the dungeons. He'd taken the time out of his busy schedule to send word to the City Watch, the names of all three accomplices that the cowardly old man had provided, and it was a rather auspicious start to the day. There was another fellow in need of help loosening his tongue, a man who owed a lot of people a lot of money, and it was time for his debt to the Iron Throne to be paid whether by coin or by blood. It was always strange, seeing the nobility of the court so disturbed by the Lord Confessor walking by with a smile on his face, but Rhaegel supposed it had to do with the primal fear that they might just be the next person to cause him to hurry to the dungeons like another man might race to the brothel after a long week. Worrying about the opinions of inferior people, no matter the supposed superiority conferred by their lineages, was not something he'd wasted time on in many years.

A lady let out a strangled scream as the Lord Confessor rounded a corner and passed her by, but the man himself paid it no mind. Word would spread about the manic cast of his face, the grin and the burning eyes, but he would not let that slow him down either. There was so much work to do, after all, and he was so very eager to do it.