A hoarse cry tore itself loose from his lips in between short, ragged breaths. He arched his back and screamed as the hot iron poked his flesh, blistering and burning whatever was left of his skin. Blood poured in red rivers from his wrists above him and his ankles below him; the skin was scraped away by the rough steel manacles as he attempted to break free. He was chained to a flat block of stone which he believed was made of granite, but he could not turn his head to see as it was bound tightly to the cold material. He wore nothing but a thin undershirt plagued with tears and holes, and a pair of black but bloodied trousers which had evidence of the same mistreatment as the grey fabric on his torso. He screamed with tap of the rod glowing cherry red. The pain would only cease when his captor allowed it, but the tall man in a full suit of armour seemed content with watching him writhe in pain. Every poke of the blistering steel made his vision appear darker as he struggled to remain conscious. He would not let his armoured torturer feel the satisfaction of victory. He couldn't. He mustn't. But alas, with every new burn upon his body, he began to slip away. Every touch made the world seem as if a haze had settled itself over the already dark room, as if a thick fog had settled into his line of sight. After another bout of thrashing and flailing came to a halt, so did he, and all was dark once again.
