Blessed Visor

(Previous scene with Victor and Stark continues as before, up to the arrest)

"By order of Chief Elmsworth," he barked, his voice thick with a northern English accent, "you're under arrest! And don't try any funny business, or you'll find yourselves acquainted with the business end of this." He gestured with the halberd, the blade glinting menacingly.

David blinked, utterly bewildered. He hadn't even touched the crystal ball. He looked at Victor and Stark, a silent plea for help in his eyes. Stark simply raised an eyebrow, a sardonic grin spreading across his blood-streaked face. "Well, looks like your tutorial is going to have to wait, old man."

Victor sighed, his expression grim. "It seems our… discussion has been interrupted. It seems you've drawn some unwanted attention."

(Flashback)

Earlier that day, in the dimly lit tavern, the air thick with the cloying stench of stale ale, sweat, and unwashed wool, the man who reared undead had been observing David with a calculating gaze. The flickering candlelight cast long, distorted shadows across his gaunt face, making his already hollow eyes seem to sink deeper into their sockets. "That man has a fine shirt," he'd muttered to his companion, a wiry man with calloused hands that smelled of damp earth and stale tobacco. "And his hair… it's different, almost… unnatural. The scent of him… like polished wood and exotic spices – not the usual stink of the road. He must be a noble, with skin that smooth." He trailed off, his brow furrowing as he noticed the faint scratches on David's hands and forearms, thin white lines against his pale skin. "Though those scratches…" He trailed off, frowning. "Likely got himself stranded. I should relay this to the Chief. Might get some coin for the information." A greedy gleam flickered in his eyes, like a rat eyeing a piece of cheese.

"Heard he even married an elf," the wiry man chuckled, a wet, phlegmy sound that echoed unpleasantly in the small space. "Rare thing, that."

"Probably a GILF," a third voice cackled, a high-pitched, irritating sound, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs from the wiry man. The cackler winced, rubbing his side.

The undead rearer, ignoring the crude banter, continued his internal monologue, his mind already calculating the potential reward. With the undead wilting like this, the earth refusing to hold them… the decay spreading like a plague… I need another source of income. Perhaps this noble can provide… A flicker of desperation mixed with avarice contorted his features.

(End of Flashback)

Back in the present, as the rough hands of the guards seized David, dragging him away from Victor and Stark, a figure approached, drawing the attention of everyone present. A woman clad in gleaming, intricately crafted steel armor, the symbol of the Empire Coven – a stylized eagle clutching a sword in its talons – emblazoned in polished gold on her breastplate, pushed through the gawking crowd. She was tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Her face, framed by strands of dark hair escaping her helmet, was stern but undeniably beautiful, with high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing blue eyes that held a sharp intelligence. Her breastplate, while functional, was subtly shaped to accentuate the curves of her chest, hinting at the feminine form beneath the steel.

She stopped, her eyes widening slightly as she took in David's fine, though now disheveled, clothing. *Is this… a prince?* she thought, a sudden warmth spreading through her chest, a blush rising on her cheeks. This could be… innovative. A powerful alliance, perhaps.Using her authority as an Empire Knight, she stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, the polished steel gleaming in the dull light. "I'll handle this," she declared, her voice ringing with authority, silencing the murmuring crowd.

Chief Elmsworth, a man with a thick, neatly combed blonde beard that contrasted sharply with his rough, weather-beaten face, and a surprisingly muscular build beneath his slightly portly frame, grunted. His face was flushed with ale and the excitement of the commotion. "Fine, Elara. But see he's properly searched. Make sure he's got no hidden blades."

As the guards, their hands rough and smelling of sweat and leather, began to tear at David's fine, though now ripped and muddied, clothes, Elara averted her eyes, her blush deepening. A strange mix of embarrassment and fascination warred within her. *Such… fine garments, even torn as they are. The fabric… so soft. And those scars… they tell a story.* She quickly regained her composure, snapping, "Package his belongings properly! They are evidence!" She turned to the guards. "I will conduct the interrogation myself."

What followed was a brutal ordeal. David, bound tightly to a gnarled oak tree in the town square, the rough bark digging into his skin, scraping and bruising him, was subjected to Elara's relentless questioning. The cold wind whipped around him, and the rain began to fall again, a chilling drizzle that soaked him to the bone. She beat him with the flat of her sword, the blows landing with sickening thuds against his ribs and back, each impact sending jolts of agonizing pain through his body. She also kicked him with her armored boots, the force of the blows knocking the air from his lungs. Each blow was accompanied by her harsh demands: "Where do you come from? What is your purpose here?"

His answers, a jumble of slang, curses, and bewildered exclamations, only fueled her frustration and growing unease. "Fuck you," he'd yell, his voice hoarse and cracking, each word a painful effort, or "Eat my ass, motherfucker!" phrases that were utterly foreign to her ears, yet somehow conveyed a raw, defiant anger. Sometimes a pained whimper escaped his lips, but he refused to weep, his eyes burning with a defiant fire.

Elara paid no heed to his strange words, her face set in a grim mask as she continued the interrogation. The longer it went on, the more a flicker of pity, a cold knot of guilt, began to twist in her stomach. She could see the fear in his eyes, the confusion, the sheer exhaustion, but also a stubborn refusal to break. One day, as the interrogation dragged on, a burly adventurer, his face flushed with drink and bloodlust, joined in the beating, his fist connecting with David's head with a sickening crunch, slamming his head against the rough bark of the tree trunk. A collective gasp went through the small crowd that had gathered to watch the spectacle. Some averted their eyes, others whispered amongst themselves, a mixture of fear and morbid fascination in their voices.

Elara, her breath catching in her throat, reacted instantly. In a flash of steel, her sword was drawn, and with a swift, precise strike, she cleaved the adventurer in two, his lifeless body collapsing to the muddy ground with a wet, sickening thud. A horrified scream escaped a woman in the crowd, while others murmured in shock. Splatters of blood darkened the already muddy ground. "Healer!" she roared, her voice laced with a mixture of fury and desperation, echoing across the rain-soaked square.

Later, during her lunch break, while eating a meager meal of bread and cheese, she approached David, who was now recovering in a small, makeshift cell carved into the base of the gnarled oak tree. The air in the cramped, damp cell was cold and stale, the only light filtering in through cracks in the rough-hewn wood. He was still weak and disoriented, the memory of the brutal beating and the near-death experience lingering like a phantom pain, a constant throb behind his eyes. His face was bruised and swollen, his lips cracked and bleeding.

He resisted her renewed attempts to question him, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear, resentment, and a deep, simmering anger. His voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible.

"Victor… he has some of my things," David mumbled, his voice hoarse and cracking, each word a painful effort. "He said he'd bring them… to my… execution."

Elara's brow furrowed, her expression softening slightly. "What things?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of genuine concern.

"A toy," David replied, a faint, bitter smile touching his cracked and bleeding lips. The smile was monochromatic, devoid of any real joy, a mere twitch of his lips that spoke more of pain than amusement. "The only toy my father ever gave me. The only thing that made America… stand out."

Inside his mind, behind the bruised and battered exterior, David's smile widened, a spark of cold, burning determination flickering in his eyes. My toy… my gun. I'm going to blast her head off.