<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/236x/44/56/05/44560515eeda356c8383133ffb8263eb.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Lissbet</span></span><br/>Human Antipaladin (Dread Vanguard/Tyrant)/Spiritualist (Fractured Mind/Phantom Blade), 11 HP, AC 10, Character Sheet (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1672533).<br/><em>Ex-death cultist, maybe? Crazy. Stick your dick in the crazy at your own risk. Likes pain and chain.</em><br/><br/>Location: Northern Women’s Cell (the popular place!)<br/>Tagging: Open!<br/><br/><em><strong>TL;DR Liz is feigning her usual distant, fugue-y state while manifesting her Phantom Weapon. This will take 1 MINUTE to complete. If shit goes down and she has to sit out the first round of combat to finish it, she will. If it goes down much before that, she’ll simply stop and deal with things with what she has available to her.</strong></em><br/><br/>Hours blend into days blend into years (https://elliquiy.com/forums/dicebot.php?r=124122), but it’s all a test, isn’t it?<em>Discomfort is the sister of pain, and pain purifies the soul.</em>Pain is easy to come by here. Almost too easy.<br/><br/>Easier to lose track of the time, and instead count the dead, Mister Mav being the latest. The latest of, hm. A thousand and fifteen, if she hadn’t missed any. Four years of nearly-daily killings add up. Doing god’s work, Warden Hux was.<em>Yes.</em>Not very well. Most of them died too<em>quickly</em>. Still, the living experienced a not-inconsequential amount of pain here, day-and-night.<br/><br/>There was always room for improvement.<br/><br/>‘Liz’ sat roughly where she’d been shoved the last time she was returned from Hux’s attentions. Hux’s boring attentions. One would think that a fellow who daily availed himself of helpless females would acquire some degree of<em>skill</em>in the act, but<em>no</em>. He did, however, have a quite solid backhand when he felt she wasn’t responding well, which was nearly always. Her dark tongue flicked out slowly to trace last night’s dried blood from her lip. A gift, along with the bruises on both sides of her jaw. A little pain. A little gain. One had to value what one was given and be properly thankful for it. She spent a moment sending a little mental thanks to her god.<br/><br/>One of these days she was going to have to show the Warden the back of her<em>own</em>hand. A few inmates had felt it. Now wasn’t the time, though.<br/><br/><em>DON'T GO THERE.</em>It was a bad idea to think about time. A thought a day was about right. Sit. Eat. Shit. Occasionally deal with another inmate who wouldn’t<em>SHUT UP</em>and let her be. Don’t think<em>too much</em>.<br/><br/>The Weapon itched in her mind. Critical. Whiny. Begging to be let out. Flenser never<em>SHUT UP</em>. But he couldn’t be let out until she was sure she’d be let out, or they’d simply kill her and then she wouldn’t be able to do what she was<em>meant</em>to. Flenser beat against the inside of her skull like a falcon caged too long. Feathers dusty. Wings weakened from too many flightless, bloodless days. There was never enough blood for him, but she was okay with that. It was always time well spent, getting more blood.<br/><br/><em>NO THINKING ABOUT TIME.</em><br/><br/>Flenser wasn’t okay with her attempts to lull herself back into thoughtlessness. He never was. He whined piteously in her skull about THINGS HAPPENING, and while it did make her head hurt, she slowly unlocked enough of her attention from her semi-fugued state to realize that<em>something</em>was going on.<br/><br/>Ah. Signs of imminent and bloody riot in the cells.<em>The natives are restless.</em><br/><br/>Liz flops over on her side in the stinking rot, knees and face touching the stained back wall of the cell and her body hunched around her hands while she<em>traces shapes </em>in the shadows. She feels the<em>barbs</em>and<em>blades</em>and<em>hooks</em>and<em>prickling thorns</em>of Flenser’s shape in her mind, and for the first time in a very, very long time she tries to will the Weapon<em>out</em>and into that little, hidden space between her belly and the wall, shadows of chain-links stirring over the stone.<br/><br/>Darkness weaves, sluggish and firm as clay around her fingertips. It shapes itself in the flickering torch-shadows as Liz and Flenser remember what it is to be<em>apart</em>, not a<em>part</em>.