Chapter Text
Essek knew how to hide his nerves. They’d been pricking at his skin since the Nein left, little needles feeding just under the first layer of flesh and shifting up and through, again and again and again until his skin felt raw from imaginary scratches. He drifted in the perfect image of composure regardless, moving through the corridors of the Shadowspire as he would any other day, on any other job.
The situation had been described as complicated. Related to the Nein, as well, hence Essek’s summoning — it seemed they were considered his wards now. That was what he wanted to believe. He had recently voiced thoughts that had always been silent, with people he knew to be observed. He himself had scryed upon the Nein, and then blurted his secrets in their presence. He, who was consecuted, who had always upheld the facade of worshipping the Luxon, now feared he had at last been caught in his lie.
Worship was not required . It was not law. But the Shadowhand was required to be transparent with his Queen. Deception, he knew, would not favor his position. Nor his wellbeing.
It was a slight reassurance that they only brought him to the first level of the Dungeon of Penance. This would not hold him, and they knew as much. Few things could chain him down.
One of the prison’s wardens met him at its entrance, a tall and broad-shoulder drow, their hair buzzed shorter even than Essek’s. “Ruasorin,” Essek greeted, voice clipped and formal. “I would appreciate some explanation as to my summons. What I was told was… frustratingly vague.”
“Apologies, Shadowhand,” they said. “We are not certain what to make of this just yet. Hopefully you will be able to illuminate the situation. If you could follow me, I will explain on the way.”
Essek looked them over carefully. No unnecessary tension, no flicker of the eyes. He nodded and motioned for Ruasorin to lead, drifting along behind them with his arms underneath his mantle.
“There was an attempted break-in to the house we have allocated to the Mighty Nein,” Ruasorin reported. Essek tensed for only a moment before forcing it away. “Guards standing by took note of this intruder and detained him. He insisted he knew the Nein, and that he needed to speak with them. He then attempted to flee the guards, and became violent when they moved to arrest him.”
“And who is this?” Essek demanded. Calmly, and professionally. “Did you get a name?”
“He has refused to give us one. At least, one we believe he actually uses.”
Essek dipped his head, understanding his job now. A simple breaking and entering would normally not require placement in the Shadowspire, but the Nein had become a very special case. Heroes of the Dynasty, they had been labeled. Those who returned the stolen Beacon, those who sealed demons out of their cities, those who fostered peace between warring nations.
“Do you believe him to be of the Empire?” Essek asked, remembering the Nein’s reservations. They were on their way to these talks as he spoke.
“We are not certain. He is of infernal heritage, however.”
Essek’s mind went to Yasha, the one who had been controlled, likely by the same entity who had influenced Taskhand Adeen. Obann had been a fiend, though whether he lay within infernal or abyssal nature, Essek did not know.
They remained silent until Ruasorin halted, motioning to a cell. Essek peered inside. There was a figure within, laid out on the ground in a startlingly casual manner. Arms pillowed his head, one leg propped up on the knee while a spaded tail swished back and forth, comfortable albeit bored. A purple tiefling was housed beyond the bars, skin littered with scars and tattoos, horns that curled about his face, long and knotted hair. He’d been forced into prisoner’s clothes that exposed the injuries he had sustained while resisting arrest.
“I am here to speak with you,” Essek called. He started, as he always did, with a soft voice. Something welcoming, something comforting. It never worked the way he wanted.
The tiefling paused, tail stilling against the floor. Then he curled his legs against his chest and pumped them forward, using the momentum to surge up into a sitting position. With one black eye and a split lip, the smile he flashed was likely far less charming than he’d intended. “To who do I owe the honor? To whom? I never did understand the difference.”
“My name is Shadowhand Essek. What can I call you?”
“Bren Laurence,” the tiefling answered, which was visibly a lie. Through the bars of his cell, Essek could start to pick out the details of his myriad tattoos. Snakes and feathers and bright red dots that matched his eyes — perhaps they were duplicates of those same eyes. The tiefling’s entire appearance was ostentatious, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget , a poor decision if he wished to act as a criminal.
“Bren,” Essek repeated. He wouldn’t play along forever, but it would work for now. “I understand you attempted to break into one of the Dynasty’s properties.”
“In my defense, I did knock first.”
“What business did you have there?”
The tiefling bared his teeth in a smile. “Just a visit.”
“For what purpose?”
“A vacation out east.” He leaned against the cell wall, bracing between his heels and his back to stretch. “I heard that the air out here is great for the lungs, you know? Need to take a month or two out of the country until I’ve recovered from my agonies.”
Essek ran his tongue over his teeth, pensive. Hidden under his mantle, he was toying with decorative rings, a contemplative habit. How long did he play along? How long until he explained the exact position this tiefling was in. Perhaps a slight increase pressure was required here. That was his specialty, after all.
Turning to one of the guards, Essek uncovered one hand to motion to the cell. She stepped forward without a word, unlocking it as the other guard gripped their halberd in warning. Essek swept inside. For the first time, as the bars clattered shut and locked, the tiefling’s eyes found the floor that Essek did not touch. His brow furrowed. “Do you just float?” He asked.
Essek ignored the question. “Let me ask you again, friend,” he crooned, letting enchantment weave into his voice. “What was your business there?”
It was a simple charm, enough to ease the mind and garner trust, at least temporarily. Even those hostile to him would easily fall to its sway — and yet the tiefling did not even falter. He only narrowed his eyes into a glare, resisting the spell as it attempted to worm into his brain. “That’s not going to work on me, friend,” he spat. “Try again.”
Essek was calm. Composed. Controlled. Certainly, such easy resistance to his magic… incensed him. But it was hardly his only trick.
He curled his fingers, a hiss of magic on his breath. Gravity thickened. The tiefling’s back, already slouched along the wall, was abruptly flush to it. The tiefling gasped, wheezing in a breath against the pressure on his chest.
“This is my third try,” Essek hushed. “I promise you, you will not like the fourth. Now, tell me. What do you want with the Mighty Nein?”
He knelt down, though he never touched the ground, face looming into the tiefling’s. Red eyes glowered at him, lips pulled back into a fanged sneer. Essek nearly snarled back, tempted to flash his own teeth. “I will explain your position to you. You are in the Dungeon of Penance in the capital city of the Kryn Dynasty. I assume you cannot remember the way out of here? Perhaps you are currently feeling the nausea of our wards. You will not be able to escape this place. You will not be rescued from this place.”
His hand settled at the tiefling’s throat, a warning. “This is your chance to speak honestly, without further pain. If you do not answer my questions, I will extract them from you by force. You have threatened honored Heroes of the Dynasty. Understand that you are in a dire position. Cooperate out of your own sense of self preservation if nothing else, even if it has failed you thus far.”
Something in there made the tiefling pause. He swallowed, Essek could feel the convulsions under his hand. “Okay,” he rasped.
Reward good behavior. Essek pulled his magic, slowly enough that the tiefling would not just collapse as his weight settled back onto the ground. He rose again, backing up a ways to give him room to breathe. “Let’s start over. You may call me Shadowhand Essek Thelyss. What can I call you? Please do not lie to me, I promise I will know.”
From his hunched position, still panting in each breath, the tiefling eyeballed him. Then he sighed. “Well, it probably doesn’t matter.” He slumped back against the wall, letting his head loll. There were holes bored into his horns, Essek noticed, and wondered if they were decorative or served another purpose. “Mollymauk Tealeaf. Probably . And it is a real pleasure to meet you, just a delight.”
Essek stilled.
It was right before he died, there was this story he told me —
Somewhere out there, there is this town that thinks Molly is The Shit.
There was a name that Nott had given him, first, before Molly. A name, and a title, one he hadn’t given lingering thought. “Lucien?” He asked.
The tiefling flinched. His eyes went wide, darted about the cell, breath catching. That was panic. For the first time since they started, he couldn’t seem to find his voice.
Essek hesitated before saying, “I take it that is not a name you prefer. Mollymauk, then?”
Molly started at him. Nodded, once, stilted and short.
“Why were you seeking the Mighty Nein, Mollymauk?”
A breath drew in. Held. Let out. Mollymauk swallowed once before saying, “I appear to have lost my memory! I woke up in the dirt and clawed myself free. I found a coat, which better not be damaged, by the fucking way. I found a note telling me my name, and sending me to a place where I found fuckall, signed by the Mighty Nein. So they seem to know who I am, and I think I would like to know that as well.”
He was breathing hard by the end of the spiel. His tail shifted along the ground, nervous or irritated or scared if Essek had learned enough from Jester’s body language. There wasn’t a hint of malice or untruth, just confusion and fear and — even now — plenty of irritation. “I got the message that they’re kind of a big deal here, didn’t realize how big, didn’t expect to get thrown into max security for trying to climb in a first story window.”
“I believe that breaking and entering is a crime in most places,” Essek mumbled, just frowning down at him.
Well.
This was a conundrum. But then, most things involving the Nein were. Most things involving his friends were. Friends who had spoken of a Molly with smiles and a sorrow, asked after him, or at least his past self, despite how unlikely it would be that Essek could know him. They cared for this person, who Essek had just threatened to torture.
He turned to the guards. “Fetch his things. I am claiming custody of this prisoner.”
The guards hesitated, but a tip of his head was enough to get one of them to move. Behind him, Molly said, “Uh, what?”
Essek turned to him, offering a hand. “I… apologize,” he said. “I do not understand the full details of your situation. However, I do know the Mighty Nein. Given that you are not a citizen of the Dynasty, you may stay with me until the Nein return.” He paused. “If you would prefer to be alone, I can arrange for that, but in that case I will need to assign you a guard to be with you at all times. Under my custody, you will be granted more freedoms, as you will be my charge. It is your choice.”
Mollymauk frowned at him. Then, he took Essek’s hand, using it to pull himself up to his feet. He was shorter than Essek would expect, even hovering off the ground. Looked almost small, with the exhaustion under his eyes and the uncertainty within them.
“Alright. Sure, I’ll room with you. I feel like I’m down for sharing.” And he grinned, something with a mischief that reminded Essek idly of his absent friends.
Friends who, when left alone, immediately began to dig through his things.
This was the sort of person he’d just agreed to house.
The guard returned, a bag of all the items they’d confiscated from Mollymauk in her hands. Essek took it, found the coat Molly must have been referring to — it was tattered and faded and smelled of earth, but the tiefling clung to it how a child clung to a stuffed toy before putting it on. At once, the change in his posture was apparent. He stood up straighter, his tail curved instead of hung. He put on a showman’s smile and turned it on Essek, saying, “Alright, Mister Thelyss. Lead the way.”