The echoing screams of a dozen wretched souls ran through Rorzen's mind along with the crack of whips and the shouts of interrogators, forecasting his own grim fate. His head throbbed from a dozen bruises inflicted by a posse of seven soldiers just several hours ago, and his gaze rose from the filthy ground slick with dried blood to the gaunt face of the most recent arrival to the cell he resided within. The gaunt face of a drakefolk greeted him, grim. The lord of the now defunct House Rorzen recognized Master Tormentor Gahlrok immediately, and he knew immediately that it was wise to expect no mercy.<br/><br/>His torso had been stripped bare and his body showed the rigors he had went through earlier. Several runes that prevented him from transforming into his half-dragon form were carved on his back, sealed with his own blood. Bruises were strewn over his chest, and his arms ached from being suspended on the rack resembling a cross. Welts had formed on his wrists, courtesy of the leather straps that tied him to the wooden rack, and his head felt heavy, difficult to suspend with a neck that had held his head straight for an hour already.<br/><br/>The Master Tormentor ran his whip over five fingers, stopping near the bladed section as he pulled the ropy item taut. Gahlrok then wrapped the whip slowly over his fist in a bandaging motion, before plunging his right hand and the whip into a waiting bucket of saltwater on a table beside him on which several other tools of paingiving rested. Gahlrokâ€™s motion sent ripples of water spilling out of the edges of the bucketâ€™s mouth, and Rorzen grit his teeth in anticipation of the pain that was coming his way.<br/><br/>He didnâ€™t even see the whip coming in the dank darkness of the cavernous chamber, and he could see a flickering flash before him for a brief moment lasting a mere heartbeat before the impact came. The whipâ€™s bladed edge sliced across his chest and cut his skin open, revealing the glistening flesh underneath. Rorzen almost bit his tongue, and then the leather whip contacted him fully.<br/><br/>Waves of agony ripped across his chest as Rorzenâ€™s resistance finally gave way, and he screamed in pain even as he clenched his fists. Two days of full starvation had already battered at his morale and weakened his body, and he felt his mind waver as his vision went blurry under the influence of the tormentorâ€™s whip. The saltwater intensified the pain, and a burning sensation rippled over the wound the whip had opened. At that point, he would have wanted nothing more than the ability to transform again, but that wouldn't happen until the runes lost their power.<br/><br/>Rorzen's vision cleared for a brief moment, just long enough to allow him the sight of a second strike coming. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the next strike, and he prayed to the gods that he would remain sane.<br/><br/>-- ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>Mordrake Pyreclaw was dressed in the extravagant suit of plate armor that had been crafted for him, with a mail shirt and leather padding over a set of plain white cotton clothes. His shoulder-long hair black as night hung over his pauldrons and trailed behind him as he walked, soldiers falling to their knees and bowing in respect along his path down the hallway. Brazen torches beside the hinge of every door lit the dark path, and puffs of dust rose with every step the half-dragon took.<br/><br/>After a full minute of walking, he turned to a door and reached for the pushbar, pushing it open and stepping in. The torturer had inflicted a final strike just before he entered, and the prisoner a few meters deeper within the room groaned in pain as he righted himself on the rack, obviously no longer having the energy to scream.<br/><br/>â€œMy lord,â€ Master Tormentor Gahlrok bowed in supplication, setting his whip aside. Mordrake nodded in acknowledgment and he turned his gaze to the broken shell that used to be an drakefolk noble before him. The work of Master Tormentor Gahlrok was apparent on the prisonerâ€™s pain-wracked body. The nobleman bled from innumerable wounds, and cold sweat dripped from where blood did not. The manâ€™s blue eyes were listless and exhausted, and he could not hold his head straight any longer, leaning to one side. The Master Tormentor had done his job well.<br/><br/>Mordrake walked towards the ex- elf lord, blazing orange orbs staring deeply into the eyes of the prisoner. Standing before the man, he raised a gauntleted hand to grip the manâ€™s face and right it towards him.  â€œDo you know why you are here?â€ the half dragon asked. There was no response. Mordrake paused a second before continuing, speaking again. â€œConfess and I shall end your suffering.â€<br/><br/>Rorzen could not bring himself to reply, but bloody spit had been welling under his tongue. With all the strength he could muster, he leaned forward and spat. The reddish liquid landed squarely on the dragonbornâ€™s left cheek. His face screwed tight in anger, Mordrake slowly released his grip on the prisoner and wiped the spit off his face with his right palm, before clenching his fist, drawing it back, and swinging his arm in a blow that had the strength of a sledge hammer.<br/><br/>Rorzenâ€™s jaw almost broke off his face entirely, but Mordrake hadnâ€™t put nearly enough force into the strike to make it a killing blow. Still, the damage had been done. The drakefolk lordâ€™s jaw was dislocated and shattered like glass.  Broken teeth flew out of the manâ€™s torn lips and clinked off the floor.<br/><br/>Mordrake turned and strode furiously toward the door, stopping only to talk to the Master Tormentor.<br/>â€œI see you have failed me,â€ he said, anger dripping from his every word. â€œSee to it that he is thoroughly broken. Your punishment will be due when more important things are resolved.â€<br/><br/>Nodding, the Master Tormentor reached for the whip on the wooden table beside him.<br/><br/>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/>The prisoner was restrained and dragged out into the fortress courtyard by two broken arms, broken legs trailing uselessly behind him. He was carried up a stone platform in the center of the courtyard, and forced unceremoniously to his knees, and his head was pressed downwards till his neck contacted the chopping block.<br/><br/>Pyreclaw stood before him, and an executioner hefting a great axe got into place beside him, pressing the edge of the axe blade onto the lordâ€™s neck. Rorzen could barely feel the cold touch of the steel. Pain coursed through every part of his body, and he would have been shouting for the executioner to finish him if the half dragon had not broken his jaw.<br/><br/>Mordrake fell to a knee and lifted the manâ€™s head by his hair, until he could look into Rorzenâ€™s eyes. He saw that the man's mind had finally given way under the torments inflicted upon him. Within those orbs that used to be a light blue, the spirit had escaped. â€œAny last words?â€ he said mockingly. He didnâ€™t expect a response as he got to his feet and turned towards the army rallied in the courtyard.<br/><br/>A hundred banners stood tall in the cavernous depths of the underground city, and lit pyres held by every standard bearer illuminated the area around him, allowing the warriors that were amassed at the great courtyard to be seen. Ten thousand of his elite Drakengard stood ready, each a highly trained killing machine.<br/><br/>â€œAnd this is the fate of traitors!â€ he shouted, gesturing towards the prisoner. Thousands of warriors stabbed the air with sword, spear, and axe alike, roaring their support. Mordrake turned his head towards the executioner and nodded, turning.  The axe raised and was brought down in a killing stroke. A brief spurt of blood was audible, and the drakefolk's head rolled off the steel block, thumping on the stone platform and rolling to a stop at the dragonbornâ€™s feet.<br/><br/>The corpse of the dead man was removed from the courtyard by two attending soldiers, and Mordrake took his weapon, the Talon of Pyreclaw, from the open hands on a waiting attendant. â€œFor forty years you had waited,â€ he said. â€œFor forty years, you prepared. For forty years you shed your blood in the forges and on the sands.â€<br/><br/>â€œThe surface dwellers have allowed themselves to grow weak and decadent. Men, elves, merfolk, shall all fall by our hand. While they plot and scheme against each other and squabble in their pathetic courts, we have prepared, and we are ready. â€œ<br/><br/>The drakengard roared in approval as one, and Mordrake continued. â€œEven the drakefolk prove their failures as a species. Why have they not conquered the fledgling nations of man, elf, and merfolk alike? The answer is simple. Their arrogance is matched only by their hunger. While you worked and toiled endlessly to atone for your sins â€“ they reveled in the power your god â€“ my father gave them, and fought amongst each other like wild animals!â€<br/><br/>â€œThat comes to an end today. We will rectify their mistakes. We will burn their cities. We will kill their sons, butcher their wives, and slaughter their elders!â€ he roared, raising his axe to the heavens , and his army followed suit. â€œToday your labor will bear fruit. Today we march for the surface.â€ Mordrake walked further forward with his axe in the air, the columns of drakefolk dividing before him to allow him a path past. â€œToday, we go to war.â€