In the Bowels...

[Zickery]

The tall, dark, gaunt and pale Umbarans hold the emancipated man aloft. They were not gentle, they were rough and harsh with him, treating him as if he was little more than a sack of potatos. In a way, the comparison was true. To his captors, he really was nothing more than just a sack, filled with food to be chewed and spat up, to be thrown and lobbed. His hands and feet bound in dark shackles of steel, each cufflink only barely reflecting the pale illuminscience emanated by the transparent ceiling above. Their footsteps reverberated throughout the hallways of the ship. Ahead of him, a taller, paler man walked, his bald head unobscured by the black helmet his comrades wore. The rest of his skin was only partly obscured by a loose, ill-fitting black robe. Each visible crevice and fold of skin was etched with scars, adorned with lines of twisted black ink. The Umbarans carried him effortlessly, their feet carrying them down the seemingly endless passageways.

They twisted and turned, they manuevered and meandered, and they skirted and swiveled for what would've felt like hours. It would've seemed as if their footsteps looped back inwards many, many times, yet they still not arrive at their destination. Yet among this chaotic, senseless roaming, there was one regularity. Every once in awhile the scarred Umbaran would step back, halting his comrade's march. He would steadily and softly approach, each time sliding a needle into Tesar's veins, pumping him full with a clear, foul-smelling elixir. One by one, the pale, black panels that denoted rooms and corridors gradually grew more blurred with each passing and each injection, their meanings almost dissolving entirely as the very paneling would seem like liquid to his tired eyes. His thoughts would fog, concious thought dripping away into a miasma of colour and irrationality. Eventually, Tesar would find himself fading deeper and deeper into the depths of sleep, his eyes sliding shut.

With a sudden jerk of motion, Tesar would come to, his eyes fluttering open as he was thrown forwards, the light fleeing from him just as a mouse would dart from the oncoming grip of the cat. His last sight would be the Umbaran covered in scars, and then the door would slam shut, leaving him in darkness, and in silence. The air would feel cold, not cold enough for true discomfort, but cold enough to numb. An oppressive silence fills the room, permeating, clinging to the back of the complete and utter darkness as if it was its mount. Yet it was not the calm, relaxing sort of quiet that often accompanies solititude, it was the quiet of a night after the bushes had stopped shaking, the quiet that often accompanies a wolf as it finally closes in on its prey to feast. It was quiet enough that Tesar would be able to hear his own blood pumping through his veins, his own stomach bubbling quietly, quiet enough that he could hear his heart beat, and almost quiet enough that he could hear himself think.

Yet nothing about the room would be more terrifying than the simple, matter-of-fact knowledge that came seconds later. For once in his life, Tesar was truely and utterly alone.

 

[Tesar Osted]

Tesar slammed roughly onto the cold, hard ground, the breath escaping his lungs and dissipating into the air around him. He struggled to move at all, the cuffs around his ankles and wrists keeping him as stiff as a board as they bit into his skin as he struggled to get free. He forced himself to stop struggling, to calm his mind and his body in attempts to think on what was happening. Images of the fight on Nar Shaddaa, the ship he was transported in and the long black hallways that seemed to never end. The soft light never enough to allow him to see more than several feet in front of him. Granted, that might be from the blow to the head, but it gave the ship an eerie feel to it.

He looked around the room, twisting his body the best he could to roll over onto his back. He grimaced as the iron bars around his wrist dug into him as he was on his side, pushing into his rib cage sharply. As he flipped onto his back, he looked up and saw nothing. The blackness of the room made it seem like the ceiling was a thousand feet high. It was only then that he realized the eerie silence of the room. He could hear his lungs filling up inside of his chest, his heart beating as it coursed blood through his veins. He could hear the soft, methodical churning of his stomach. He thought nothing of it at first, until it dawned on him that the natural process of his body were the only things he could hear. Not a single noise made its way through the walls of the room.

Hours passed and Tesar slowly began to lose it. He began screaming and shouting at the top of his lungs, begging to be let out. The rhythmic beat of his heart echoing across his brain. He began to imagine that every beat of his heart was a gunshot, pulled by his own hand, aimed at his own head. He had rolled onto his stomach and put his face flat on the ground, growling at it and begging it to move so that he could escape. He cried out and begged and begged for mercy, to be let out of the god forsaken room. But nobody answered. But still he screamed and hollered, making as much noise as he could in attempts to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, but no matter how loudly he yelled, he couldn't scape himself.

[member="Salacious Vile"]

 

[Zickery]

Dreaded hours pass in silence, every thump of Tesar's heart endlessly ticking onwards, the only symbol of time within this dark and desolate chamber. The air is stale, as stale as a loaf of bread left to rot, but that does nothing to curb the growing rumble that Tesar would feel. Each rumble would be like a bell tolling, his stomach desperately craving the one thing all things need, sustenance. It was almost poetic, in a way. Even in this dark and empty void in which he was imprisoned, time still passed, and the body still craved. He would be left laying like that for some time longer, a span of time that could only be measured in heartbeats.

About ten thousand heartbeats later, at least, assuming Tesar had been keeping track, a single, bright streak of blinding light would jet outwards into the room, briefly illuminating the chamber and its intricacies. The floor is a sharp, flat metal grating, the walls concave and foam-like. Each portion of the wall is carved into intricate spirals, yet it seemed almost without rhyme or reason. A figure clad in black robes, his flesh obscured by veils and cloth slowly enters, and he sets a tray down, its surface filled with a faint greyish and moist slop. It smells foul, a scent far too noticable in the near-empty room. With a languid pace, the figure turns, slowly moving towards the exit.

"Hounds must eat like hounds."

The figure utters this clearly and precisely, and with a note of finality he turns, moving towards the doorway. As he passes through the archway, the door slides shut with an audible click.

 

[Tesar Osted]

He scrambled forward, clawing at the tray full of this disgusting grey glop. He put it to his lips and drank deeply and fast, the disgusting liquid running down his throat. It suddenly started to come back up, triggering his gag reflex. He did his best to keep it down but despite his best efforts it came back up, spewing onto the floor, making a giant mess. He gagged for several minutes, the taste of the liquid unable to leave his mouth and throat. He groaned as he curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth as his stomach clenched in pain.

What seemed like hours past and Tesar grew hungrier and more violent. He began pounding on his chest, hollering into the dark abyss that surrounded him. He clawed at the walls, his fingers bleeding and leaving trails of blood on the walls, slowly dripping down before drying onto the wall. He cried out in fury and punched the walls and the floor, his hand jarring against the solid encampment until he couldn't feel the large, bloody mess anymore.