“I have got to see this!”
In his head, Fray has been building out the shortest possible sentence condemning something as twisted as the worship of pain. Now he stops cold.
Karlach is looking at him. Grinning at him. With two thumbs up.
Heat floods his face, as if she had exhaled on him with her superheated breath. He summons a smile he hopes is not too wobbly, and then turns to face the freak with the collar. “Alright,” Fray says, and regrets it at once.
The disciple—Fray has already forgotten his name—beams and hauls him forward. “Shirt off,” comes the command. Fray hesitates. “Or don’t. ’Tis your shirt to ruin, dear one.”
Fray only has so many shirts, and fewer that he thinks flatter him. He pulls off the top and shakes himself; as an afterthought, he hastily pins up the rest of his hair. He’s only just gotten the blood out. His vanity will be the death of him, if Karlach doesn’t get there first.
He hears Gale’s quiet, surprised oh behind him, and forces himself to keep his eyes front. The disciple, glancing up from where he selects a weapon, smiles again. “Ah, but you are already familiar with the blessings of pain,” he says eagerly, and Fray can’t help but look down at himself.
Scar tissue looks back. He hates looking at himself without the buffer of clothes. That vanity, again. What he looks like doesn’t matter. It’s stupid to be self-conscious about what is under his armor, about the careful scarring that stretch and weave across most of his body. Much of it is abstract, repeating patterns along his arms and chest, but all of them move to support the six-sided figures that sit in places of power: two on his chest, one each on his wrists, three down his spine.
He should be proud of those marks, like his teacher told him; they are proof of the Revelation. Proof he answered the call. Lately they just itch.
“Did you scream a great deal?” the disciple asks eagerly, and he is suddenly too close, examining the scars. Fray gestures irritably: can we get this over with?
He is directed to the back of the room, and told to put his hands on the wall. He does so, and waits. “Something that won’t damage these beautiful scars, yes,” the disciple is murmuring to himself. Impatient, and nervous, he peers over his shoulder. Gale and Wyll crowd one another to see the show, while Karlach just looks over them. And Right—Right stares with wide eyes that dart between him and Karlach. Then the disciple is coming toward him again, holding what looks like a many-tailed whip.
Fray puts his eyes front, cursing himself. He shouldn’t be doing this. This is a kind of prayer to the sadistic god this man worships, isn’t it? His mentor would be appalled. He can only imagine what kind of punishment would be doled out by her, to say nothing of the displeasure of the Revealer themselves. What would he possibly tell them? I was trying to impress a tiefling? No. Absolutely not.
“Three is plenty, I think,” comes the disciple’s voice, startlingly close. Fray pushes himself from the wall, meaning to turn and decline, when—
CRACK
His breath leaves him in a shout of pain. His teeth lock onto his tongue to try and suppress the sound. He falls back to the wall, momentarily stunned at just how much the blow had hurt. It’s much worse than a single blow from a whip should feel, worse than the blades and magic he’s endured these past few days. Stripes of pain, simultaneously icy and white-hot, burn along his back. “One,” says the disciple soothingly. “Don’t hide your pain, dear one. Cry out! Loviatar longs to hear you!”
Dimly Fray hears Gale call out. “Our friend here has some trouble with his voice! Will that be a problem?”
Yes, you idiot, thinks Fray, but the disciple laughs merrily and dismisses the concern. As long as he can scream, his offering will be accepted. Fray grits his teeth. He will not scream.
CRACK
This time the sound is choked and throttled on its way up his throat. The second blow is so much worse, adding fresh hurt to the dulling sting. He needs to stop this, to end this worship before he brings the wrath of his god down on himself. Before this madman kills him. He tries, but his joints feel out of reach. He’s locked in place by his own body’s shock.
“Two! Come now, my darling, loose your tongue! Sing!”
CRACK
His body, deciding it has been abandoned by its mind, vents its pain in a shriek. His nails snag on the stone masonry before him. His legs threaten to buckle. He might be shaking, but he can’t quite be sure. His thoughts seem to float out of hum, disconnected from his body. He marvels faintly at the feeling, Yes—yes, perhaps he can see what it is the disciple hoped to drive him to. He can glimpse it, and realizes he’s seen it before. His ritual scarring had been numbed with magic and sedatives, but he had still felt each stroke of the knives. He remembers disconnecting like this, almost—almost—
Then his thoughts snap back into his miserable flesh, and the only thing he can think about is how badly he wants to lie down.
The disciple is murmuring to himself. Fray cannot fathom the idea that so much pain did not outright destroy his scarring, that this misstep has severed him from his patron for good. His breath comes fast and hard, anxiety on its heels. It is quelled when someone speaks.
“Hells, that looked rough,” says a voice, male—Wyll. Wyll, who is suddenly there and keeping him upright. Wyll is sturdy and solid and warm, and catches Fray’s weight when his knees panic at the idea of moving. Dimly Fray becomes aware of the rest of them, too: Gale and Karlach hover close by. Right is nowhere to be seen. Fray tries to shake himself; pain radiates deeper into his body, though it’s much less severe. “How’s he look, Right?”
“No blood,” says Right, surprise in their voice. They’re behind him, Fray realizes. “I thought he’d be shredded.”
“I would not normally dilute an offering,” says the disciple pleasantly. “But his scars are so beautiful, and must have hurt so very badly. I amplified the effect magically, rather than risk their desecration.”
“Those scars are something, alright,” says Karlach. She might sound impressed. Fray tries to focus his vision and sees her looking him over, hands on her hips. “Hey, soldier! Good show. Can you stand?
“Dunno,” Fray says shakily. Anxiety still swims in him, but he simply cannot deal with it here and now. He shuts it neatly in a box and looks up at Wyll. “Le—let me try?”
Wyll lets go. Fray falls over. Oh well, he thinks as there is a hustle to get him back up. At least he gave Karlach a good show.