ruinations | (no subject)

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They attacked in the night like thieves.

A more direct strike against a prestigious mage family would have spelled nothing but disaster even for the Zhentarim, whose numbers could have overwhelmed the guards on a more level playing field. Trickery was needed: it had to be an inside job with all of the wards and security systems taken down. It needed to happen quickly before any of their secondary defenses could spring up, before the old man Archibald could activate any secondary wards or, worse, might weave powerful enough spellcraft to kill them all.

The guards didn't manage to sound an alarm. The electrical systems died seconds after they did. A strong dozen of the most powerful the Zhentarim could offer - individuals proficient in magic and in tactical warfare - stormed the residence. In less than thirty minutes, the place was decimated, and they took their prizes. They struck with gloves laced with electric runes and powerful magnetics to be used to circumvent the magical circuits the family was known for, easily incapacitating them. Waver was struck down before he could barely get out of bed, held down while he heard the screams of his family as they, too, were indisposed. He was dumped near the bodies of his guards - his mentors, acquaintances, even his friends - before the world went dark.

He was beckoned back to wakefulness in a cage laced with electricity and runes, the strongest precautions against a mage like him. Even then, his wrists were bound - separated, though - with tight metal bands that disrupted his magical circuits. The room he was in was dark, lit only by faint neon lights that smarted when he looked too long at them. The most prominent sound was their buzzing and little else for a very long time.

Faintly, he could hear intermittent sounds coming from beyond the glass window in the corner of the room. It took him a while to perhaps realize they were the sounds of screaming and begging.

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He flinched at the touch, the softness of it somehow more threatening than the frankness of force.

Again, the boy shook his head, his swollen lip drawn beneath the other, the rest of him held very still. His voice cracked slightly.

"I- I don't. I don't have anything. He wouldn't leave anything to me."

"A selfish man to the end, wasn't he?" they whispered, voice soft. "Or did he not anticipate anything happening to him?" The clawed hand seemed to pull away for a moment. Then, a single tip snagged in the top of his shirt, the fabric thin. It parted beneath the sharp tip, right down the middle until it showed much of his back and shoulders.

A clawed finger tapped once, twice. Waver's magical circuits lit up like beacons and though the gesture was not painful, it was certainly invasive. It was not unlike blood magic, or the sort of implant-based circuit diving that some were using these days to jump into bodies, systems, and the like. It was practically one step beneath blind puppeteering.

Eyes swept over him. When there was nothing to be found - no hidden sigil, no code, no indication of further magic - the hand fell away and Waver's circuits were freed of their scrutiny. The one at the door was frowning heavily, disappointed in their findings, his gaze fixed on Waver. The one behind him merely sighed.

"Take him back. They won't be pleased." But there was nothing to be done about that.

Waver did not answer. True, his father probably had thought of himself as far too powerful a mage and likely even considered himself near-invincible, knowing his ego. But he'd also been a shrewd and careful man, for all his other faults, sometimes even edging on paranoid. It was unlikely he'd left no backup plan. Even if he was selfish, he must have left some sort of key or guide or will, just in case-- but it wouldn't have been for Waver.

They'd never answered his question about his sister. Now, Waver was too afraid to ask again.

He went stiff beneath the stranger's fingers when he felt the feather-light graze of something sharp along the back of his neck. It snagged on the collar of his rumpled button-up, tore through the cloth like paper. The cold air hit his skin, and Waver shivered, his hands clenching into fists again in the cuffs. He expected more pain. It was worse than that.

Waver's mouth dropped open in a voiceless gasp, his fingers clenching tighter until his knuckles went white. He sat completely frozen as the moments stretched on, feeling far too long, the breath stuck in his lungs unable to squeeze past the way his throat felt far too tight. Goosebumps rose along his skin, every muscle gone tense. But there was nothing to be found. He hadn't been lying.

By the time his captor withdrew the touch, there were tears sliding down Waver's cheeks as he slumped back in his chair again, the ruined shirt sliding down one of his shoulders lopsidedly. He gasped for air, but did not speak. It finally, suddenly occurred to him: he was no use to them. There was no reason to keep him alive.

The man at the door came to collect him. He was not careful but he was also not rough in his treatment. He led Waver back to the room with the cage alone, where he ushered him in. The electric bars allowed him more room this time but little else. They did not bring him another shirt and he was left there for an undetermined time without food, without water, though it couldn't have been for so very long. He did not starve; they would not allow that.

In some amount of mercy, the neon lights had dimmed for him to allow him to sleep. And he was left there in that limbo, unknowing if it was day or night, for many, many hours.

Voices outside the room alerted Waver to someone's presence there. Too low to be discerned, there was some sort of exchange before the door slid open. A young woman hardly older than Waver entered, thin and wiry, dark hair pulled back from her face. Her skin was dark and...strangely luminous under the neon lights as she turned to look at Waver. While she wore black like the others Waver had seen, there was a long swatch of blue around her waist like a sash, the only color in the room that drew the eye. In her hands was a tray. A long, deep blue tunic was draped over a shoulder.

She knelt down in front of Waver's cage, peering in. "Are you awake?" she asked softly, her eyes a piercing, almost unnatural red color.

Waver did not fight. He didn't crawl into the cage on his own either, but he didn't struggle when he was nudged in with vaguely surprising patience from the guard, who waited until Waver was locked in again before adjusting some settings to expand the electric bars enough to give him room to sit up fully or lie down stretched out if he wanted to this time. There was nothing else in the cage.

And for a long, long time, there was no one else in the room either. The lights went down enough it was difficult to see anything beyond the dimly glowing bars of the cage, and even his own limbs looked like little more than silhouetted shapes in the darkness. His ruined shirt kept slipping uncomfortably down his arms, but he couldn't fix it even if it hadn't been ripped, not with the bar between his hands.

Waver settled on his knees in the middle of the cage, in the oppressive silence, feeling numb and violated. His skin was still crawling from the intrusion. He'd never felt anything like it before, that sensation of someone reaching into his magic, under his skin, digging around inside the core of him. It made him want to wash it out somehow, try to drown out the feeling of the foreign presence with his own magic-- but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He could only listen to the silence and the hum of electricity, and his own thoughts and fears and regrets twisting like vipers in his head. And he could sit here, kneel until his legs went numb and his knees began to hurt, and then he slowly, uncomfortably lay down.

First, he lay on his side for a while. Then on his back. On the other side. Turning this way and that on the hard ground of the cage, afraid of getting too close to the electric bars, it took Waver a long, long time to fall asleep. When he woke up, it was the same; he had no way of telling if he'd been asleep for an hour or ten. It was like that every time he managed to doze off, and he lost count. When he was awake, when he couldn't physically sleep any longer, he stared out past the bars until he could make out every corner of the room even in the dimness, every discoloration in the walls, the crack of space between the doorframe and the door. He couldn't feel his fingers. He tried to lay on them or breathe on them to keep warm. Once, he even tried getting close to the electric bars, but he was too afraid to risk it. All the while, Waver tried not to think about what had happened. He tried not to think about his father (dead), or his little sister (missing), or his father's new fiancee (probably also dead), the household staff or groundskeepers (certainly also dead). He tried not to think about what they would do to him, whether anyone would ever come again, or how much his arms ached and his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth and his stomach hurt. He bit at the cut on his lip until it bled again, and again, just for something else to think about.

When the woman knelt by Waver's cage at long last, she would find him facing her and the door as he lay half-curled on his side, one arm tucked awkwardly to pillow his head as well as he could manage. The shirt had torn -- or been torn -- further, and slid all the way down his arms to hang in a rumpled mess of dingy cloth around the obstruction of the cuffs and his hands. His eyes were open, but he made no other move to show that he'd noticed her or heard, except a blink and a slow refocusing of his gaze. Awake, then, and not much else.

The woman met his gaze after a time, waiting for a response that did not come. She settled to better sit before him, her eyes wandering his form and frowning after a time. "I have food and water," she told him quietly, her voice gentle.

It didn't seem as if she expected much of a response to Waver, as she continued on even without a word being spared to her. She set a hand down in front of the cage and tapped at the concrete there. "I have to open this up to give it to you, all right? You can run if you want but the door is locked. You won't be able to go anywhere." Her eyes were on his. "I want to unlock your hands, too, so you can eat. If you try to hurt me, though, I will hurt you back. Understand? I don't want to do that...but I will if you try." Every word was terribly calm coming from her and she maintained eye contact throughout the one-sided conversation, waiting for any sign of movement or understanding from Waver.

Waver's gaze drifted to the tray at the words 'food and water' with a flicker of understanding, though he didn't feel relieved. There was a vague recognition in the back of his mind that food and water meant they likely weren't going to kill him, at least not immediately, and he hadn't been left in this cage to die if they'd sent someone to check on him. But other than that, he couldn't find the capacity to care very much either way. Even the thought of water didn't make him feel thirsty anymore, though he knew he needed it. His mouth felt too stuck to open.

So he only nodded. After a few moments, he moved to sit up slowly, pushing himself up on his bound hands.

She lifted a hand and seemed to gesture at the side panels. A device over hand in the form of a glove seemed to be what controlled the cage mechanism, and the electric bounded field turned off. Its dimensions, too, changed to allow Waver for more room to move. The woman reached for him with her bare hand, coaxing for him to come closer. "Here, let me see those." Once close enough, she took his hands in hers so she could look at the structure of the bindings, and she gave him a long look. "You need to cooperate, all right?" she asked again. And without waiting for his affirmation, she used the glove to power off the rod binding his hands and made to unhook it, pulling it away that he might be able to move his hands.

The cuffs around his wrists remained. His magic was still locked away despite the removal of the rod, which was placed to one side. With her other hand, she grabbed the tray and brought it over, though she gave Waver room if he wanted to stand or at least move out of the cage. She had offered, after all.

Her red eyes followed his vacant expression, catching sight of the mark on his lip which he'd nibbled open more than once. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.

As soon as the electric barriers powered off, Waver scooted tentatively closer, extending his arms so the stranger could remove the cuffs. She did not. Still, she disassembled enough of the mechanism that his hands could be apart, and the shirt could come off the rest of the way. Waver pulled his arms back against his chest once it was done, fingers curling over and rubbing at his wrists even with the metal bands still on them. He didn't try to use any magic.

When the tray settled before him, he just looked at it. He did not move to stand, either.

The question made him look back up. Although he didn't realize what exactly the woman was referring to, he nodded, the gesture almost grudging, suspicious. His lip hurt. His arms hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt, in some way, a persistent, dull ache from the stress, the cramped quarters, dehydration, all of it. What a stupid question.

"I can loosen those a little," she said, about the cuffs when he was rubbing at his wrists. "But only a little." Her look was thoughtful rather than serious, and she opened a hand again for him, gesturing for him to come just a little closer. With one hand, she pulled the tunic down from her shoulder and handed it to him. "Here. You're probably cold." The other one she plucked away and folded up, setting it to the side.

As Waver allowed her the chance to look at his face, she gave it some careful scrutiny. "It's pretty swollen," she murmured, and held out her bare hand, palm up. Each step was deliberate, careful, coaxing. Waver could refuse if he wanted to. That was the point. A little control put back into his grasp could do wonders...if done right.

"I can heal it, if you want."

But only if he wanted, if he felt it was safe to allow her to.

Still just listening in silence, Waver watched her. His eyes had focused more in the minutes she'd come into the room, sharply following every movement now, while his own remained slow, tense and careful. For a moment, he considered the suggestion, eyes locked on the woman's, noting the strange color. When she offered the clothing, he took it, hesitated, but did not put it on. Instead, he let the tunic fall across his lap and proffered his wrists once more.

Until she'd loosened the cuffs as promised, Waver didn't even acknowledge the other question, but finally, with effort, he opened his mouth. The word was barely a whisper.

"Why?"

The cuffs were loosened only enough that they could not be pulled from his wrists and down off of his hands. But his circulation would be better, she assumed, and she sat back when he finally managed to make better eye contact with her. She lifted a slim brow. "Why? What do I have to gain from leaving you hurting?" There was a lofty lift to her shoulders, but the set of her lips was severe. "It's messy. They accomplished little from hurting you - and now you're less inclined to open up." She scooted away so she could nudge the tray between them, to give him some semblance of space.

"You didn't choose what your father did but you're the one suffering the consequences of it. Isn't that enough?"

As soon as she loosened the metal bands, Waver withdrew his hands toward himself again, and returned to rubbing his irritated wrists, testing how much space was between the metal and his skin. Now, he could slide a fingertip beneath either cuff at least, trying to soothe the soreness.

He didn't look up again until the mention of his father. Waver drew his knees up, curling his arms around them, but he did not hold the woman's gaze, instead staring past her at the door.

"You killed him," he pointed out quietly. Wasn't that a consequence? Waver still didn't even know who these people were or what they wanted, but the stranger was right about at least one thing: Waver had definitely held no sway over his father's decisions.

The accusation did not seem to disturb her expression. Calm, unflinching, she watched him curl up. "Not intentionally," was her quiet, matter-of-fact response. "I wasn't there, to be honest with you. Everything I'm hearing is second hand." And that much was perfectly true, but Waver would have little memory of who had been there in the dark, who had cut down his guards and servants, and who wasn't involved at all. "There was no point in killing your father. They want what he has, what's owed to them. Your father racked up a hefty debt with them. You don't simply hire the Zhentarim and then refuse to pay what's owed."

Her eyes were bright on Waver, waiting for him to respond. "Why would they kill your father if he had the thing they wanted?"

Not intentionally?

Waver's eyes refocused on the woman's face suspiciously as he listened, clearly not believing her. It did not escape his notice either that she referred to them, as if she had nothing to do with what had happened to his father, possibly what was happening to him now (and yet, she was obviously sitting here, so that could not be true). There was a flicker of recognition, surprise when she mentioned the Zhentarim; it seemed Waver had not known his family had dealings with them at all, or why. It did sound like his father to try to weasel himself out of consequences and payments, though.

He frowned, hugging his knees tighter.

"It'd be stupid to," he mumbled.

But they had. He didn't believe it was an accident. The attack had been planned strategically, overpowering or circumventing their defenses. That kind of planning ending in the accidental death of their target, especially when it was carried out by a group with the kind of reputation the Zhentarim had, it wasn't likely they'd just screwed up at the finish line. The man who'd interrogated Waver before had made it sound like the head of the Archibald family had been killed for his lack of cooperation, and that sounded more believable, though still stupid if they needed him alive.

"Dead people can't pay back their debts."

But, apparently, they'd thought Waver would have access to give them the payment they required instead. And he had no idea for what.

"No, they can't," she murmured softly. "And neither can their families if certain precautions haven't been taken."

Waver's information had been good: Kayneth's sigils were written in his skin. But they were absolutely useless when not in the right hands. Waver's blood held the key, his and his sister's, but they only had one of them at this point. Waver wasn't going to give up something so precious...and he wasn't in any condition to be using sigils or giving anything to the Zhentarim. Not yet.

There was no trust here. She needed to cultivate it, slowly but surely.

"It's a good failsafe, I suppose, ensuring all of your secrets die with you. Not so for you, though."

If Waver did not show he had something to offer, the Zhentarim would find a use for him. Whether that was as collateral or a corpse remained to be seen.

It sounded like a threat-- and like exactly what Waver had been worried about when he realized he'd given away how little he really knew about his father's work and dealings. If he had no secrets, no intelligence value, there was far less reason not to kill him.

Waver looked down, curling in on himself.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm not certain," she hinted, drawing him back to a simple understanding: she was not Them, not one of the people who had specifically done this, even if she stood with them. "Some of it depends on you, your willingness to cooperate."

More than that, though. If Waver had any ability to unlock some of the places in Kayneth's home, if his blood held the key to utilizing any of the stronger items they were hopeful to find... He could be immensely invaluable but only if he agreed to work with them. And he wouldn't work with his father's killers. She wouldn't either; in that, she could empathize. So she needed Waver to be willing to work with her.

Slow, gentle, careful. He was counting on her.

"You're afraid they'll kill you."

His head snapped up, eyes wide and terrified.

"Of course I'm afraid they'll kill me!" His throat was dry and too tight, voice cracking.

"A-and who are you? You keep saying 'they' like you're not one of them but you have control over that awful cage too! What are you talking about?"

Her gaze held his in complete silence, waiting for him to breathe again. Only then did she speak, each word slow. "My name is Devyn. And it's true, I work for the Zhentarim. I had no part to play in your family's loss. I'm only here to minimize the damage that's been done."

Carefully, she pulled the glove from her hand. Setting it to one side, well out of Waver's reach, she performed the same gesture on the cage. Nothing happened. She did it again and, once more, there was no change.

"When I walk out of here and leave you, they'll take that thing back. So long as I'm here, I have some small control over what happens to you...but little else." The glove slipped back on. "So long as they think you're going to wait here to die, stubborn to the end, then no one's going to waste their time trying to keep you around." Her eyes met his. "If they think you have some worth...they might listen to me and keep you alive."

So she was some sort of negotiator? Waver didn't look convinced, watching her suspiciously as she demonstrated that she couldn't do anything without the glove, which he'd already figured out. It meant nothing. She could be lying.

Not that it mattered if she was lying about that or how much say she got, really. In the end, the part she was right about was his chances at survival. Or lack of chances, as the case may be.

Waver had scooted back away from her a few more inches during his outburst, more crouching now than sitting, with the distinct look of an animal about to bolt. There was nowhere to run. His chest was heaving, breaths loud in the silence and too fast. The sudden spike of panic and movement after so long of doing nothing but lying on the floor of his cage made his head spin.

"What do they want? I had nothing to do with any debt! I don't know what he was doing. I'm not being stubborn. I just don't know."

"What they want is to take back the things your father had them procure for him. Wherever they are, they're under lock and key." There was no frustration in her voice, not even a flicker of disappointment. "So the issue is two-fold: where are they and how does someone get to them? These are questions you can't answer...for good or ill." In some ways, it was better Waver didn't know. It didn't improve his situation, obviously.

"But they've already done the job. Whatever happened that night, however things unfolded, these are the results we have to work with." Death would net a minimal profit; letting Waver go would be a loss. There had to be compromise down the middle, and she needed to find it.

Devyn slowly moved her legs so she was sitting a bit more comfortable, settling her hands on her knees. "As things stand, you are the only person who could potentially provide answers. I'm not insinuating you're lying or that you have them - but that you're the person the Zhentarim have access to. What happens now is a debate around what to do with you...and whether keeping you here is worth anything."

Where was Reines? Was she dead too? Did they even know about Kayneth's step-daughter, considering they'd assumed Waver was his heir and never even mentioned her? He didn't know. There was so much he didn't fucking know, and it was likely just about to literally kill him.

He had to stall. He had to survive, at the very least. Whether or not there was anyone left, he was still alive, and Waver had every desire to keep it that way.

"I--" He tried to settle back down onto his knees, tried to calm the frantic drumbeat of his heartbeat pounding in his temples so hard it was difficult to hear himself speak. The room swayed.

"I can-- Let me look. Let me search his office."

A single brow quirked up at the suggestion. Devyn's expression didn't shift otherwise, her eyes sharp upon his face.

"A novel thought," she murmured, mulling the idea around, examining the logistics, who would want to be involved. She kept her smile to herself. "How are you going to convince them that you could find something? And if you find nothing--"

She let the suggestion hang for a time. Then, she breathed out.

"Is his office in your home? Or did he have another?"

"At home and at the university."

As for convincing them, Waver didn't know, other than to offer... and to buy himself time. If he could look around and find something, anything that might even lead to more searches, it would at least be more time on his side to come up with a better plan. And if he could find information on the location of the family's Mystic Codes, maybe he could actually use it. There was a chance, however dim the hope, that he could actually get the inheritance he'd been deemed unsuited for.

It wasn't like he had much choice.