PCs:Grace Dane Unuldur/Journal
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May 20th, early morning hours.
The light of the moon streaming through the window shade makes delicate patterns on the walls of the bedroom. Seated at the edge of the bed watching the shapes, Grace stares ahead with her eyes wide. Her skin is pale and glistening in the light, covered in a cool sweat, despite it being the middle of the summer. A soft scream penetrates the air as she looks around for the source, before realizing it has come from her. She stands and checks to see if Morran woke before she pads off to the basement, still in her nightclothes. She sits at the bottom of the stairs unmoving for some time, as if lost in her thoughts. She stands and turns to the training dummies across the room and silently unleashes a stream of magic flames at them, barely moving from her spot. She collapses to the ground and pulls out her worn journal from the desk near the training dummies and lights a candle and begins writing.
The thoughts of that place…I cannot seem to control them when I sleep like I can when I am awake. They consume me when I let my guard down. Asleep, I could not tell myself it was over. The memories come flooding back as vibrant as they were, as if I was still in that place. I could not keep myself from going back to that room every night.
I can see their faces outside my cell, watching. They were always there watching me, recording every twitch, every cry out in pain, every tear that rolled down my cheek. There was no rest, no escape from their games, and no way to get away. I was too weakened from the tests to fight them. Every thought I had of my freedom was quickly met with a blinding pain deep inside my head.
Her hand reaches up almost instinctively to her head as she rubs across the temples and behind her head. She smooths her hair back and tucks a loose lock behind her ear as she writes.
The wounds are nearly healed, even though the pain is still present. No one could see them now, if they did not know they were there. I am sure Morran sees them still, if only in memory of how they looked when he found me. I can recall so little of my rescue and recovery yet my captivity still remains fresh in my mind.
When I close my eyes, I see the island ahead. I am in darkness but a small hole in the wall allows me to peer out. It is a ship and the water is rough around us, as waves crash against the side. I am unable to move from where I am tied and I cannot cast a spell, no matter how hard I try. Something or someone is blocking my focus and I can feel a presence with me, not in my room but in my head. It is very uncomfortable and I cannot get it to stop. I cannot recall how I got on this ship or why I was in such pain, just that I was in darkness and I was not alone. The waves continue to beat against the side as we come to a stop. I try to peer outside and I can see a little docking area, but I do not recognize it.
The room around me brightens a moment and I can catch a glimpse of my surroundings. My clothes are soaked in blood, oozing from a large wound on my stomach. I look up toward the direction of the light and a tall thin figure approaches me, almost hovering, cold and inhuman. I try to focus on the figure but then everything is dark and quiet.
Grace sits quietly looking over her journal in the darkened basement. She has regained some color to her cheeks and tucks the worn book back into the desk and walks back upstairs to bed.
May 31st, midnight.
Grace wakes with a start, having fallen asleep in front of the fire. Morran was still sleeping next to her, warm from the fire. Running a hand over his broad shoulders, she looks at the scars on the outside of her hand, where her pinkie finger had been attached. It was numb at the edge but fully functional. She leans and kisses his shoulder and grabs a drink from the side table and heads to the basement again wrapped loosely in an oversized man’s shirt. She pulls out her journal from the desk. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she begins to write.
The room that they kept me in was small, barely big enough for me to extend fully. I could make out shapes outside my dark room and voices would break the silence occasionally, too far away to understand. I tried to judge the time but it was near impossible to tell. I know for certain that I was hungry and tired. My wounds seemed to stay wide open, never healing. The pain in my head was constant and the presence I felt earlier was always there, never ceasing in its control of my mind. It was listening to my thoughts, praying on my fears. I could not see it but I could tell it was not human. The cell door would open from time to time and a shadowy figure would enter and write a few notes into a large book. I would always try to speak to it, to ask what it wanted with me, but it would just turn away. One day, riddled with pain and nausea, I reached for one of the shadows with all the strength I could muster. It was solid, but thin, its bones were sharp and precise, and it wore robes, rubbery and slick. It recoiled at my touch and drove a sharp spiked finger into my flesh on my arm. I shrieked at the slice and the room darkened again and the cell gate slammed shut. I sat holding the wound with one hand, trying to stop the bleeding. It was a deep jagged cut and tore the muscle underneath the skin. A few moments later, the door opened and I was pulled to my feet and walked into another room. I could see my door was across from two other similar doors and the main room was filled with large devices, screens, tubes and implements. The shadowy figure that pulled me out of my cell threw me against a table and strapped my arm to it tightly with a leather strap. The blood still flowing from the wound, I could do nothing but stare at it. One of the others ran a hand across it and the bleeding stopped. I thought to myself it odd, such an act of kindness from those that have brutalized me for days. The presence I felt with me laughed an eerie, shrill laugh as another figure approached. Standing across me on the table, it wrapped a piece of leather around my pinkie finger. I watched unable to do anything as it tied the knot tightly. It was quiet in the room and the figure behind me held tighter to my shoulder as the figure across the table grabbed the end of the leather knot and pulled in one strong jerk. I felt a wave of nausea, as I looked down at my hand, seeing the figure rip my pinkie from my hand. The darkness came quickly and I passed out from the pain.
Grace looks over a drawing she has shoved into her journal and traces the outline of her hand.
She sighs and tucks the picture away inside and closes the book and quietly meditates in the basement.
June 7th, late evening.
Grace paces the floors, waiting for Morran to return from an army mission. She always worries when he is away. She tries to keep her worry to herself, as he would always tell her how foolish her concerns were. She knew he was right, as he was fully able to protect himself. She calls Turais from his rest and they go down to the basement and spar some of the training dummies. After they have vanquished their imaginary foes, Grace sits on the couch and pulls her journal to write, while Turais curls up at her feet.
The darkness soon became a welcomed thing. Any light would only show the wounds and the faces of those that took her. They were not human at all. They were illithids. I can barely stand to say the word now. They were powerful and one presence always kept my power from returning. I would try to focus, to shut it out of my thoughts, but it was stronger than anything I have ever felt. I could tell it was not coming from one of the captors that took great delight in my torture, day in and day out. This presence in my head was something more powerful. My hand was swollen and black. The open wound where my pinkie was removed oozed and throbbed all the time and I could not use that arm any longer. The same illithids would watch over me, writing in their books while they poked and prodded me. My mind would flash visions of home, of Morran, of my sister and my family. It was only during those moments could I remember who I was and what I had before. I know the thing that was trying to control my thoughts could not keep those from coming. Those were the only times I felt sane.
I remember a day when I was in excruciating pain and on the floor of my cell. I had felt like I could not take more of their torture and could feel my will slip away. I had a sudden flash of a memory of Agatha and I when we were little girls. We were in our house in Dunster Commons and playing hide and seek. I could hear Agatha counting and I ran to hide in our cupboard. She came looking and went straight to the cupboard in front of me and opened the door, laughing. I asked for hours how she knew and she would make up all kinds of stories about being able to smell me and then it was because she had amazing powers and could always see me. Finally, after much prodding, she broke down and told me my robe was sticking out of the door. I remembered this moment and the sound of her laughter, the smell of our kitchen and I felt at peace.
Whatever the presence was that was controlling my thoughts, it could not gain full control of my mind yet. I knew that day that I would have to get out of that place and I would have to stay strong as I could. Grace closes the journal when she hears the front door open and heads upstairs.
June 12th, before dawn.
Another sleepless night finds Grace in the basement soaking in the sauna. She lies back on the bench and starts to write in her journal.
I could hear voices near me speaking softly, some voices in a language I could not understand. There was a man’s voice. It was recognizable, even in my state of mind. I tried to focus on it to drown out the others speaking so I could place it. Crawling toward the bars on my cell, I tried to listen to what was being said, to see through the dark room. My head was bleeding and the pain left a ringing in my ears, almost drowning out the voices but I could make out a few words here and there.
The voice in the darkness, I knew it well. The tone was not what I was used to when I heard him speak but it was definitely him. I tried to speak but I was too weak to make a sound. Placing my swollen and gangrenous hand against the bars, I pulled as hard as I could to drag myself to the door to get a glimpse of what was outside. My eyes nearly swollen shut, barely able to pierce the darkness, but I had to see him, to let him know I was there. I had thought for a moment he had come to help me until I could make out the figures and where the voices were coming from.
Three large figures and two illithids stood over a long metallic table, speaking and gesturing to one another. The voice was coming from the man strapped to the table. He was speaking to them although I could not make out the words. The largest of the figures took his things from him and tightened his straps before stepping off to a strange screen nearby that flashed bright images. One of the illithid moved away from the side of the table toward the top. Its tendrils were waving wildly as the captive spoke and thrashed on the table. I kept trying to speak, to call out for them to let him go, but no sound came. The other illithid made a few lines on a sheet of paper next to the table and showed the illithid at the end of the table. It leaned down and placed its large tentacles on their captive’s head and began to bore into it making a horrid sound and the man fell silent.
I watched, frozen. I felt my own head and its large wounds and the room started to spin around me. What was this place and what did they want with us? My mind raced wildly as I tried to pull myself to stand against the door. One of the large figures walked to the tableside and pulled out a very large axe dripping with acid. The illithid released its grip on the man on the table, its tentacles glistening in the light. The figure raised his huge arms into the air and brought the axe down with a sharp crunch and severed his head. I let out a shrill shriek, in horror and sadness, and the illithid turned to me and released a blast that made my mind reel until I felt my brain would explode.
Then again, I was in complete darkness, alone.
Grace looks over the drawing she made when that memory came back to her after her release. She did not want to show it to anyone after. It was too painful. She would have to keep this memory to herself. She knew this writing was helping her with her recovery, to put all this behind her and to come to terms with it, but this memory was too much for her. She could not even name him.
Placing the drawing into the folded page, she sits with the journal in her lap, closes her eyes and weeps quietly for her lost friend.
June 25th, early morning.
Grace and Morran stroll into the house in their Blackhawk uniforms, dirty and tired. Morran’s face is bandaged and he goes into bed to rest, while Grace puts on some food for him. When the stew is done, she peeks in to the room and sees him sleeping soundly. Setting the tray down for later, she quietly heads to their basement and pulls out her worn journal.
That cell became my sanctuary. If I was there, I was away from those creatures and their tests. I was sure it had been weeks, though days were blending together into a long stretch of wakefulness. My only real sleep came when I had when I passed out from the pain. All my other time was spent awake, trying to clear my head and remember. I could barely remember Morran’s face. I know the presence was blocking, controlling my thoughts, but I wanted to see it so badly.
When I had a moment of lucidity, I could feel the presence directing my thoughts, dredging up memories somehow, forcing me to relive them. I would fight against its probing until the pain was too great and then the memories would wash over me. My father coming home from the war wounded and changed, seeing Agatha slain, my grandparents passing, all the horrors of the war that I had witnessed in my life, every painful event in my life played over and over. The presence was seeking something, but I could not tell what it wanted other than to cause me pain. I would sit on the cold floor staring at the bars that kept me from the experiments trying to cast even a cantrip. I knew I had to regain some control of my mind if I was ever going to get out of this place. I tried repeatedly to make the words come, to remember the incantation, but it was hopeless. I could not even see my husband’s face, let alone fight off these creatures that would be coming for me soon. I fell back onto the floor of my cell, the ground slick with my blood and tried again to see his face before they came for me.
An illithid approached my cell, as the door opened for it. It pulled me by my hair to my knees and I could feel its tendrils and tentacles wrapping around my head and shoulders. I could feel the coldness of them whipping against my face then a tightness that made every bone in my body ache. It felt as if my head was going to explode when I started to pass out. Before I reached unconsciousness, a figure came to my door and grabbed the illithid and threw it with great force off of me. As I was fading out, I heard it say “not yet�? before the door to my cell slammed closed.
I heard a noise in the other room, beyond the bars and pulled myself over to the doors to see, darkness beginning to creep into my sight. There was a commotion and the sounds of cell doors opening and closing. The humanoid voices were angry and they were speaking in loud voices. The illithids stood by listening and one of them turned toward my door and watched me as they spoke. The tall humanoid figures moved from my line of sight and I could no longer hear them. The illithids followed closely behind then the room went dark again.
Pulling out a sketch of one of the creatures, Grace traces the tendrils slowly with her finger.
Slipping off her glove, she looks at her hands. The scarring is minimal except for where the finger was ripped off. It does not cause her pain like the wounds on her head. Those are a constant presence. Sighing softly, Grace puts her journal away for the day. She picks up her metallic whip and walks over to the dummies and starts to practice.
July 1st, middle of a moonless night.
Grace wakes from a dream, shivering in the dark room. Not wanting to wake Morran, she slips out from under his arm and pulls on her robe beside the bed and heads out into the front room. She pets their dog and sits with him a while as he sleeps. He was a great comfort to her, knowing he alerts them to every sound in the night. Grace goes to the kitchen and grabs a bit of pie before heading into the basement to write in her journal.
The person in the cell across from me has died.
I could never see who it was, as they never once cried out or raised their voice. I would not have known they were there, had I not seen the form being taken in and out of the cell randomly. The illithids took them out today and I saw one slide its tentacles into the person’s head. The body shook a bit then remained still.
It had no arm on one side from the elbow down and the wound was still fresh. I could not tell if it was male or female in the darkened chamber but I know it had suffered greatly. The corpse fell slightly over the edge of the table as the tentacles slid out of its head. The wounded arm dripped blood on to the floor with a soft splashing sound as the puddle grew. It was quiet in the room other than the whirring of the machines and the soft splashing sound. I leaned against the bars of my cells and listened to its rhythm, quickly first then slowing until it dripped no more. I looked down at my own wound on my hand, the tear healing somewhat but ripping open when I would try to cast spells.
The four holes in my head were not closing over and the pain would not cease, even for a moment. I could not bear to touch them or tend them. It was just an exercise in futility, for when I would try to cover them with whatever scrap of cloth I had left in my cell, the bandage would be removed by the one guarding me. They were always watching, always knew what I was thinking, what I wanted or feared. They had complete control of my environment and my thoughts. I had given up hope of being rescued, as I could not even hazard a guess as to where I was or who knew I was gone. My strength was gone and I could barely stand, let alone free myself from these that I so despised.
I collapsed on the floor, wishing it would all end.
Grace closes the book and her eyes and sits in the darkened basement until the first light of dawn breaks in through the window. She then goes upstairs and starts to make breakfast.
July 5th, before bed
Grace gets her journal and walks upstairs with it and sits by the fireplace. She reads over a few passages and removes a few stories that were just too painful to remember. She taps her pencil against the page, looking over her sketches and sipping some fire spit. She starts to write some more into the worn book.
Weeks have passed and I fear that I have lost any hope of regaining control of my mind. I just lie on the floor of my cell and stare at the illithid as they move about. The only time I move is when they come for me for their tests. I can no longer give them what they need, what I think they need…a reaction.
No matter the experiment or how excruciating the pain, I can no longer scream or cry. I am numb. My senses have left me and my eyes are nearly swollen shut. My mouth is dry and my lips cracked. The blood from my wounds on my head and hand has smeared all over my skin and I am too weak to stand on my own. The presence with me has blocked any thought of home, any trace of my former life, such that all I see is this place when I close my eyes. I see my friend’s beheading, that person on the slab, all the experiments, those damn illithids and this cell. The floors and walls, every stain and scratch, I know like the back of my hand.
Lying on the floor of my cell, I am awakened by a sound from the hall, much further away than the experimenting rooms. It sounds like a wall crashing down and I can hear something in the distance, like voices yelling to each other. The illithids in the room outside my cell move together and walk quickly to the other side of the room, out of view. I can hear sounds of fighting, spells of immense power being cast, and more voices that seem somewhat familiar to me. I try to pull closer to the bars but my strength has left me.
There is a large explosion and the room fills quickly with people fighting and shadows moving around. After a fierce battle, the room is cleared of the illithid and the people fan out, speaking to one another. I cannot make out any of them but one figure comes to my door. After prying it open, he reaches down and lifts me up gently, covering me with a robe. Up close to him, I can feel his skin next to mine and hear his voice. It is Morran and he has come to save me. I do not have the energy to even speak to him. The people move about the room, which is lit up slightly and I can see some of the equipment better. There is another man I recognize, my archmage. I can see Damar standing over a control panel, pushing buttons and taking notes. I try to see more but I am overcome as the room goes dark again.
I wake slowly, and I am in a bed, my wounds have been dressed and I have a clean robe on. Morran is at my side. I try to speak to him, to thank him, but I still cannot find my voice. The presence I felt for so long is not with me as it was, but my mind feels different. I think perhaps Damar has warded my mind to protect me. I can barely see the things around me, but I know I am home safely now. I drift in and out of consciousness for days before I am able to speak of it.
Grace leans back and finishes her fire spit. She stares into the fire, warmed and flushed. Morran yells out from the bedroom to come join him for a bath before bed. Grace closes the journal and leaves it on the table and walks toward the bedroom. Her recovery is beginning.