Story: Never Going Home

"Neverov," a gravelly old voice barked. Kiryl looked up from the folder he'd had open on the table in front of him, reaching absently for the stained gloves set off to one side. He'd seen a definite increase in the practical application of his apprenticeship lately, and already anticipated the old man's request.

His mentor, Silas Witherbloom, was a rather crotchety husk of a man with a hunched back, wispy and thinning short gray hair, and disposition that matched the surliest and most stubborn of mules. He snorted through his nose lightly as his apprentice approached, working his jaw idly as he watched Kiryl tug on his gloves. "Always quick ta jump, aren't ya, pissant?" He grumbled as he shoved a new manila folder at his chest. "Yes sir," Kiryl replied evenly as he carefully took the dossier in one hand--An action which earned a slight roll of the eyes and a grumble from his superior.

"This is yer case taday, kid. Don't fuck it up," he grunted as made his way to the door, leaving a somewhat confused deathguard in his wake. Kiryl cocked his jaw lightly to one side as he furrowed his brow. "...'My case', sir?" He replied tentatively.

Silas partially turned around as he tugged open a metal door, his spindly hand still on the handle as he levels Kiryl a withering gaze. "Ye deaf alluv a sudden? Yes. Yer case! Yer flyin' solo tanight, Neverov. Problem wit' that?" Kiryl's semi-perplexed expression did not budge an inch as he remained motionless, the dossier still held aloft in front of him. "Ah... No sir," he murmured eventually as his gloved hand slowly fell to his side.

"Good," Silas grunted as two guards toted in a struggling human man, cuffed in iron shackles. "Don't sweat it too much, kid..." He grumbled in a semi-begrudging tone as he began to shuffle outside of the room. "This pup'll be a soft one."

When Silas eventually left Kiryl to his own devices, the would-be-interrogator promptly began reading the envelope's contents, pausing only to give a few cursory glances towards the prisoner as he was being secured in a large metal chair. Pup, indeed... This one didn't look much older than seventeen. Hell...He's only a few years older than what my son would be now... That thought did not sit too well with him, but he forced himself to remain on the matter at hand.

His name was William Riverdale, a courier for an Alliance platoon simply referred to as the "23rd Lion Brigade"--A group that frequently ran attacks on the southern Forsaken territories, such as Tarren Mill and the Sepulcher. Young Riverdale was a runner of important missives between his commander and Southshore. Unfortunately for him, the location of said commander was the information that needed to be imparted.

Tossing the dossier onto his work table, which glistened with multitudes of sharpened instruments of surgical terror, he then picked up a weighted meat cleaver. No...this is war. And he is a soon-to-be unfortunate casualty of it... Kiryl mused silently as he inspected the blade's sharpness. He could hear the courier begin to blubber like a babe once he caught a glimpse of Kiryl's selected tool of torture. "No... N-no... Lemme go," he whimpered as his shackles were locked down to a blade and hammer-worn iron table in front of him. "I...I did nothing wrong...!" Tears started to stream down his terror-stricken freckled face as one of the guards pinned down his left hand so that it remained flush against the table. "...I...I...just...let me go... P-Please, I want to go home...! Please...!"

It was that last comment that made the interrogator slowly look over his shoulder, despite his best effort not to, and solemnly arch his brow while regarding the frightened young man. "No, William," he murmured joylessly as he turned to face him, his cleaver brandished in his right hand. Slowly, the sorrow bled out of Kiryl's expression until only a stony impassive mask remained. "I am afraid you will never be returning home..." The courier recoiled in horror while his face contorted in anguish, choking on his sobs.

"...Hold him."