January 17th, 2018 at 08:22pm
@ oldbook;
The cell wasn't so bad—at least, not compared to how Bronwyn had imagined. As a child, she'd been told horror stories about the awful vampires and what they did to little witches who didn't behave. The stories were all dingy dungeons with torture implements and blood on the walls, the witches hanging by manacles made from hazel, crafted for the express purpose of blocking magic. Those were the sort of stories told to convince kids to listen to their parents and mind the rules of the coven, because the coven kept you safe.
Frankly, as bad as her situation was, Bronwyn was relieved. The only thing the stories got right was apparently the hazel manacles. Rather than being hung from a wall though, they simply locked around her wrists, attached by a chain like handcuffs. The cell was dim, yes, but there was lighting in the hallway outside in the form of sconces lining the wall. It was also a little damp, but as far as her eyes could discern, no blood lined any surfaces within her small space, and there was nary a weapon anywhere within her sight. There was even a chamberpot in the corner for her use and a straw pallet upon which she sat. The complete silence almost made her wish for the moans of the damned though. Almost.
The manacles were their own special form of torture in a way. The hazel had been cut roughly, meaning they weren't exactly round so much as many sided with plenty of corners to poke into skin. That wasn't to say that they were made badly. On the contrary, they were a healthy, thick wood and didn't seem to have a single splinter. It was more as if they were made to be highly uncomfortable to the wearer, and whether it was because of the sharp corners poking into her wrists or due to the wood itself, they accomplished that job with Bronwyn. It started as an uncomfortable, prodding itch that she couldn't seem to shake and couldn't scratch because her hands were bound, and then it spread, becoming something close to a burn that she couldn't alleviate. After some unknown period of time during which she attempted to simply deal with the feeling, she ended up angling her hands down in front of her body and pulling one leg up so that her foot could press into the chain connecting the manacles together, hoping that angling the manacles away from her skin in one area would provide some relief.
This was the same position in which the vampires found their prisoner. Had her skirts been shorter than their calf-high length, the scene might have been indecent. As it was, she looked akin to a feral animal, hunched over with wild, honey-brown curls falling all over the place like a giant bird's nest. Bronwyn was wraithlike in her skinniness, little more than sunned skin stretched taut over angles and bones. She wore no jewlery, was barefoot after having her shoes taken along with her cloak and satchel, and had been left without a single weapon at her disposal. Her skirt had been tied twice around her waist, shirt tucked into it to help hide how ill-fitting the simple blouse was on her as well. When she looked up at the vampires' approach, her face was angular and hollow, with shadows around her eyes and cracked lips. What really stood out in her appearance were her violet eyes though, a trait that wasn't exactly natural and was amplified as such by the light of the sconces' fire reflecting in their depths.
Her mother would've fainted at seeing her daughter look such a sight. Bronwyn's appearance was neither practical nor even ladylike; it was disrespectful.
"Stand up," the first guard demanded as he approached the bars. He seemed young and eager to prove himself. Bronwyn's self-preservation instinct rang little alarm bells in her head, but logic paid attention to the guard standing behind Foolhardy. His expression was stoic, eyes calculating—obviously the one with experience. He'd be harder to get past, and even if she managed, being chained in hazel, she'd have to dodge a castle full of vampires who would go on high alert once they realized their prisoner wasn't where she was supposed to be. Her chances of making it out of this mess were pretty much none.
Keeping her eyes on Foolhardy and No-Nonsense, Bronwyn slowly pulled her foot back from the chain and let it drop back to the ground, immediately feeling the itching return to the skin she'd been able to give a brief reprieve to. She fought with her expression then, trying not to show how the hazel was getting to her, and settled on something that she hoped was as unfeeling as No-Nonsense—she had no idea it was a scowl that settled there instead. When she got up, it was without the help of her hands to balance her, nearly causing her to nearly fall back down before she caught her balance, at which point she approached the cell's bars. Despite their numerous initial questions, Bronwyn hadn't answered a one, and that silence was carried through now. They wanted to know which coven had sent her and why they'd targeted that specific vampire. They didn't know she only wanted a fang, and even if she'd told them, they wouldn't care and more than likely, wouldn't even believe her anyway. Greed was a witch problem.
"Try to act up, and we have orders to subdue you by any means necessary." This came, once again, from Foolhardy, who procured a key only after receiving her curt nod of acknowledgement and opened the door. He stepped inside the cell, put a hand on her shoulder with obvious distaste for having to actually touch a witch, and used that hand as a lead to practically push her out of the cell. "You're being taken before the Queen Mother to receive your punishment," No-Nonsense added, though he, at least, kept his hands to himself.
It was then, as she was being half-pushed down unknown corridors towards a fate that was surely death that Bronwyn spoke for the first time since being captured. "Finally."