The Silver Queen [AU]

[Tethras Clan]

"No- just take everything you can fit in your bag- if we're freeing a captive, they'll know we were here, so we might as well. Helene will have better luck figuring it out anyway," Zevran replies with a shrug. "The only question is whether we kill the not-so-noble Lord on our way out, along with rescuing Isabela. And Coquette, if she wishes it."

[GamesMaster]

"I vote yes," the cat hisses, then he flinches a little. "Presuming I get a vote."

[Tethras Clan]

"Entirely understandable," Zevran murmurs. "And I assure you, him dying will happen, just possibly not tonight. As much as it pains me to say, killing him is less important than making sure this Ozymandus person he's funding and their entire slaver group is shut down."

[GamesMaster]

"Is this not Ozymandias' lair?" asks Vig, tail swaying. 

[Tethras Clan]

Wait, what? "Why would he... funding and support is one thing but..." No, that's absurd. And yet... "Vigile? Could you describe Ozy?"

[GamesMaster]

"Well, he wears a mask, covering one eye entirely but leaving the other open to see. When he performs arcane feats, his one eye glows with grey light. He orders but does not dirty his own hands," Vig adds, clearly disgusted by him. "He wears white, and his hair is dark."

[Tethras Clan]

"Any thoughts on his race? Build? Accent?" Zevran asks, glancing at Carver with a sick feeling starting to grow in his gut.

[GamesMaster]

"Mortal. Ah, elven, I believe, unless he is one of those Merikos. Slim, with an accent like..."

He speaks next in Celestial, which makes it startlingly clear he's been speaking Celestial the entire time -- but before, Zevran could understand him, and now he cannot. His accent, however, becomes a dead ringer for Olocaryn's posh, clipped accent -- when he sounds faintly annoyed.

[Carver Amell]

"Well, fuck."

[Tethras Clan]

"A decidedly apt- and also poor- choice of curse," Zevran says tightly. "We need to get to Isabela. Now."

[Carver Amell]

"Fuck!" 

Carver turns, then, jogging for the entrance -- the kind of tight jog that indicates he'd rather flat-out run but he doesn't want to arrive winded.

[NPCs]

It's pure, raw instinct that saves Carver, makes him jerk his torso back just as a bolt of lightning hits the wall to his side. The backwash of it still arcs across his armour but that's far better than what would have happened. Evidently, Isabela is going to have to manage on her on just a little bit longer...

[Helene Dakesh]

Helene was hard at work.

Their research had led to, not a dead end, but a series of clues that seemed less than useful. They understood now much more about Ozymandias' habits, about his character and personality, but that did not help them overmuch in finding out his true name. They did discover that he tends to act in the evenings; perhaps, they reason, he sleeps in a warded location by day and comes out at night. 

As they waited for sunset, they tracked down a corpse that was likely to be killed by him. Tasting the blood did not reveal the answers they sought; a scroll was purchased, and the corpse interrogated directly, confirming that the man did kill him, and that he was definitely active here in Jalzaid after sunset. The corpse was even able to give a passable description, which Helene used to create a sketch as a focus.

It was finally divination that bore fruit, as it often does. Back aboard the ship, Helene laid out their favorite mirror on the galley table and cast once more a scrying spell, looking for Ozymandias once more. 

And this time, they managed to spy the man with his mask off...

[NPCs]

Isabela isn't sure how or when (and certainly not why), but she'd allowed herself to be put in... well, quite the vulnerable position. She's blindfolded, still, but she's now wearing a bridle that keeps her from closing her mouth and magically blanks out any words but not noise she makes. And she's making a great deal of noise. Bent backwards over a padded bar, her wrists and chained to the floor along with her ankles. There's a little slack for her hand, though not even close to enough to lean up, but her feet are locked in place by chains and the iron bar between calves. Her breasts jut upwards, nipples aching painfully due to the clamps and her own nearly unbearable degree of arousal. Twin phalluses buzz softly in her holes, the pressure and vibration set just right to keep her reaching for her peak but never gaining ground. Her body glistens with sweat and massage oil, lightly scented with sandalwood and vanilla, the bright and mostly steady light of the magical torches playing off her skin and almost transforming her to a work of art.

Across the room, Olocaryn shudders, then pulls out of Coquette's cleft, his eyes never leaving Isabela. "That'll do for the moment..." he murmurs, taking a breath. "I need to rest for a little while... but it would be rude to leave our guest unattended, wouldn't it, mon chat?" His smile is razor sharp and utterly merciless. He gestures at the table over to the side of the room, where he'd laid out the toys from the pain chest while Coquette was strapping Isabela in.

"Now. Pick something from the desk."

[Coquette Blacquin]

Pick something. For a moment, Lady Olocaryn freezes, remembering what happened, remembering the first time she was violated, abused. Remembering when she lost hope, when she was broken to her Master's bidding. Pick something from the desk, mon chat. 

But this time... This time it wasn't her being broken. This time she wasn't the victim -- this time she was Tessa, obeying her Master, ready and willing. No. Isabela chose this. She wants this. This is play. This is not... this is not...

Lady Olocaryn walks to the desk, almost on autopilot, her hand hovering over the objects. No healing wand this time. No toys. All instruments of pain. Did we... we spoke of pain, did we not? She likes... she likes....

But nothing comes to mind, and Isabela's unable to speak. She... I will pick something... I will... 

Hesitantly, she picks up a paddle, like the one Isabela had suggested previously.