Dexter was but a boy of eighteen. He was an orphan, with an unknown mother and father. Not uncommon in the city of Oli. Through stealing, begging, and fighting, Dexter survived until his current age. Luckily it was in the southern part of the Empire, so he didn't have to worry about snow. Unfortunately, it was in the southern part of the Empire, so he had to worry about the unbearable heat waves and the horrendous stench of the city.
As a street urchin, he often fought with the city guards. And by fought, he means he ran away. He had a perfect record of wins, and so did every other street urchin. After all, to lose was to get caught, and to get caught was death.
Today was his first loss. His only loss. That was why Dexter was sitting in a rotten dungeon, on the wet, moldy, icy floor.
I'm going to die.
That thought, along with-I need to escape, lingered inside of Dexter's head. But how was the question?
The jingling of brass keys brought Dexter back to reality. He kept his head down. To look up was to draw attention, and to draw attention was misfortune. The prison guards were corrupted, sadistic men. Often they were worse than the criminals held captive.
To be anyone, anyone of notable repute, structure, or appearance was asking to be beaten, harmed, and humiliated.
Silently, he prayed to not be seen. He was an atheist, but at that moment, he yearned for the reassurance that a higher being would bring. But the heavens tend not to answer.
"Brat!"
Dexter stiffened. Instinctively, he knew the name was referring to him. He tilted his head up and looked through the rusted iron bars.
A face with arrogance started down at Dexter. The man's mouth formed into a sneer as he spoke words of death, "Come out here. The Count has decided to punish you before your execution."
Although it was called a punishment, it was nothing but torture show for the enjoyment of the Count. The nobles had an arrogant temper and watching bastards like him wither under their feet was a great source of enjoyment. Often Dexter could hear the screams of his fellow prisoners echoing throughout the cells.
Dexter stiffened as the guard opened the door. He wanted to cry, beg, plead for mercy but he knew it was of no use. He could only resign to his fate.
Dexter was brought to a large spacious cell in the dungeon. It was much cleaner than the other cells but Dexter knew that it was because the walls were scrubbed clean of blood after every prisoner that entered.
The cell was brightly lit, unlike the rest of the dungeon, but it was not a blessing. Instead, it allowed Dexter to see the torture tools hung upon the wall. Whips, swords, spears and other large weapons laid across the wall for all to see. However, the most terrifying tools were laid on a small table. There were pliers, scalpes, and nails of varying sizes, all shiny and clean as if mocking Dexter that very soon, his blood and skin would splatter across them.
In the center of the room was a board with restraints and metal chains dangling from the ceiling above it. The guard hung Dexter up using the chains and left him in the cell alone.
Dexter didn't have to wait long before his torturer came. The door creaked open and a jiggly man waddled through. That man was Count Tripe, the overseer of Oli. His hand with gaudy rings on every finger stroked his face as he smiled.
"Ah, a young one. This one shall last long," he said.
Dexter looked at him with eyes filled with fear. Count Tripe slowly walked towards him, inspecting his body.
"Yes, yes," he muttered. "Let us first break the spirit," he said as his mouth split into an even wider grin.
He walked to the walls lined with weapons, and his hand slowly caressed each one. Dexter could only watch as Count Tripe picked up a whip.
…
By the time it ended, Dexter was barely conscious and his back a bloody mess of flesh.
"Oh my. You have beautiful screams, child. But you didn't think that it was over, did you?"
Dexter didn't know when, but there was a bucket of water laying near his feet and Count Tripe in front of him.
Count Tripe had a bottle in his hand. The inside was filled with a white substance.
"Guess what this is, child?"
Dexter could barely function. His mind was becoming muddled as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness.
Splash!
Dexter's eyes shot open. He coughed violently as some water had gotten up his nose. Each violent tremor of his body pained him.
When he finished coughing, he felt Count Tripe sprinkle something on his back. Flames of agony overtook his mind as he screamed. The pain felt amplified hundreds of times.
Count Tripe laid him down on the board, further antagonizing his back. The substance had a gritty texture, causing it to rub further into his wounds, tearing them.
After Dexter was restrained on the board, Count Tripe picked up a plier. He hummed as he got closer to Dexter's hand.
...
When Count Tripe was finished, Dexter's fingers were bare.
Count Tripe wiped down the pliers as he addressed Dexter. "Tomorrow is public execution day. You have served me well, so I shall grant you the privilege of a swift death."
Dexter's voice was gone. His throat was too hoarse from screaming that he couldn't even grunt in acknowledgement.
Relief flushed through Dexter as Count Tripe left the cell. He was too tired. Death would be the greatest mercy to him.