[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

With a final heave Rysha and her unconscious burden arrived in the small cavern that had been her destination. The man's eyelids were flickering slightly, and Rysha guessed he'd be regaining consciousness in a few moments. She reached for a length of rope she kept in this cavern for this purpose and quickly bound the man's wrists and ankles.

Securing his wrists to the iron ring in the wall that made this chamber so very convenient, Rysha sat on the floor just outside his reach and waited for him to revive. As she waited rather less than patiently she ran her whip through her white fingers, stroking it like a small animal.

Only a few minutes passed before his eyelids quivered and snapped open. He looked around wildly for a second before his eyes fastened themselves on Rysha. "Where am I?" he asked tensely as he struggled a bit against the ropes.

"You're safe, don't worry." Rysha said, in the same cold level tone. "From now on, I'll be asking questions and you'll be providing me with the answers, thank you." She stood and walked toward him, her whip trailing behind her on the ground. "First of all, what is your name?" she asked softly, "It will help me greatly to know how to address you." The man clamped his mouth shut and scowled at her.

Rysha raised her whip, sending her first stroke across the insides of his outstretched arms. She had hit him lightly, but the skin was tender there, and red welts raised themselves almost immediately. She repeated her question, louder. When he wouldn't answer she brought her whip down harder, much harder, across his arms. "Haydn!" he burst out.

Rysha smiled. "Haydn, pleased to meet you. I told you before, but you may not remember. My name is Rysha." she made a small bow. Haydn gave her a wild eyed glare. She walked closer to him, taking a small dagger from her boot and spinning it in her hand. She bent down and slit his tunic from neck to waist. She pushed it back and surveyed the pale skin of his chest and stomach. A lovely canvas for her whip to paint on.

"Now Haydn," her voice lowered to the voice a mother would use to a young child. The sound was eerie in the dark halls. "Who is the leader of your group?"

With every slash of her whip Haydn told her a little more. The leader of their group was called Falin. He was a dwarf, of the Glittering caves. They were here seeking a lost treasure. Rysha grinned. She had almost everything she needed now, she was nearly certain this treasure was something the wights didn't know about. A few more cuts and it could be hers. Rysha licked her lips at the prospect. The sugary tone was gone from her voice now. "What is this treasure you seek?" she barked.

"I don't know," Haydn said. Rysha cracked her whip hard across his chest. She'd hit him half a dozen times already, and he was bleeding profusely. As her whip struck his already stinging skin he flinched and cried out. "I don't know!" he repeated.

Rysha dropped to her knees beside him. "What do you mean you don't know?" She pressed her hands onto the welts her whip had left, the salt from her fingers would make them sting all the more she knew. The stickiness of his blood covered her hands. He sucked in a breath as she pushed harder and harder at his wounds.

"Only Falin knows!" he cried. Rysha stopped pushing, wiped her hands on his ripped tunic. Only Falin knows... she thought. Where is it then? Her mind demanded, at least I can go and find it.

"Where is it?" she snapped. "Where is this treasure that only Falin knows about?" A terrified look filled Haydn's eyes. "You don't know do you?" she asked in a low controlled growl. He shook his head. She lashed at him in frustration, another long purple welt forming as her whip kissed his skin.

Rysha drew her dagger, intending to slit his throat and be done with him, but as she leaned over to do it a thought crossed her mind. Gorthroth wouldn't learn anything from him either. But the gift of a prisoner would please him. Her dagger, almost as though it had a mind of its own, strayed toward his throat again. She so wanted to kill him, to watch him die and pay for her frustration. But she pulled the knife back and instead cut the bonds on his ankles.

Pulling him roughly to his feet she retied his hands behind his back. Her dagger pressed hard against his spine, she spoke to him. "One wrong move, my friend, and you'll lose the use of your legs forever." The falsely bright tone was back in her voice now. She shoved him in the direction of Gorthroth's cavern. She'd wait for the wight there, in comparative safety.