Despite the festering eternity that Shadryn had spent in this deepest of endless nights, he knew surprisingly little about the room in which he now lived. Light only reached Shadryn's eyes when the torturer arrived, carrying a torch to light the stage for his grisly work. His eyes were always blinded, be it by the endless dark, the sudden firelight, or simple pain so intense that it blotted out his very existence while it persisted.
The room was surprisingly large for a cell; the torchlight licked at stone walls that slowly crumbled with age and bit with a glint when it struck stained glass. Though the designs were mostly but dust now and many of the windows had been shattered, one could tell all of this was once representative of gods and religious figures long-since forgotten to time. It almost seemed to be something of a small cathedral, perhaps a ruin from before the vampires had come. Shadryn imagined he had been imprisoned here in some kind of twisted mocking gesture. Here to bleed upon sancitity, here to despair in a place that once gave hope. Here to slowly descend into insanity as the dark twisted its fingers in his ringing ears and made him forget if his eyes were open or shut.
The torturers were the only contact Shadryn maintained with any part of the world beyond this chamber. This was the third creature Indira had sent to populate his new dark, dank hell, and the third set of restraints they had tried. His first tormenter had bound him in magically reinforced chains and shackles that quickly proved too much for even an Angelus' strength, but not for his wiles. In the middle of one of the first sessions, Shadryn had snapped his own wrist intentionally in order to slide it free of the chains. Even with a broken wrist, the resulting blow crushed the bewildered bloodsucker's skull before the creature could interpret what had happened. Had his lackeys not rushed in to restrain the Nephilim once more, he might have escaped Lasymor right then.
But he hadn't, and so the inky black permeated and consumed. His sense of time had slipped ever since he had first descended into Siaraia, but by now it had long-since ceased to function entirely. He was no stranger to captivity, but even in his clouded, rambling mind he grasped that this was the worst he had experienced. Unlike the naïve humans that had tried to contain him before, it seemed that Indira, or at least someone with sway in Siaraia, knew all about Angeli. Specifically what it took to kill one, and what exactly their bodies were capable of. An indefinite lifespan and healing powers that bordered on the paranatural were no benefit to one in such captivity. His current tormentor called himself the Masseuse, and like both before him had used every tool available to him to carve, maim, hack, batter, and sear the Angelus in ways that would have killed a human many times over. The Nephilim often recalled an old story about a demigod who had brought forbidden fire to mankind in its infancy. He had been punished for this crime against heaven from the Almighty by being chained to a mountainside, where a massive eagle alighted to devour his liver. Overnight the liver would heal completely as the demigod was immortal, and the eagle would eat it again the next day. Such was Shadryn's life. He knew not if he'd been imprisoned for months, years, or even mere days. All he knew was that his ichor had flowed so readily that the floor beneath him was scorched black with the heat of it, and yet his body bore no lasting mark by the time the Masseuse returned to continue his therapeutic work.
The Masseuse actually seemed to take a particular interest in spilling his ichor. Perhaps it was the manner in which he came to replace his predecessor. The second torturer had clamped Shadryn to the stone wall with thick, heavy shackles so that he was completely immobile and therefore could not hope to wriggle himself free as before. Instead, Shadryn had bitten the inside of his mouth hard enough that burning ichor had flowed into his mouth. When his tormentor had come close to smile and cackle in the Angelus' face as he was so fond of, he had received a face full of liquid fire. Shadryn's ichor was akin to the stuff that burned in the hearts of suns, and hearing the creature's agonized, gurgling screams as his very skin and pallid flesh bubbled and melted off of his skeleton had brought the Nephilim the only nugget of relish he had felt since leaving the surface world.
And so the Masseuse had come, and restrained Shadryn anew with his arrival. The Nephilim was now suspended in the approximate center of his cathedral-cell, bound with an indeterminate number of steely, dark cords. They stretched his limbs almost out of his sockets, bound his midsection, and even snaked around his neck and dangled from his ankles. His skin, though woundless save for the scar over his right eye, was greasy and covered with filth that suited his drooping head and dregs of matted hair that had once been auburn-colored. His face was as filthy as the rest of him, and his mouth was stuffed with a gag that resisted his every attempt to spit out. It had been a gift after he had spit all over the second tormentor. His grey pants were all that remained of the clothing he had worn on the day he had been captured, and they too were torn nearly to shreds such that they covered very little. His four wings--always the august reminders of the freedom of flight and the holy power bestowed upon him--were similarly bound and stretched out behind him. Their feathers were matted and contorted with abuse. Many of them had come loose and littered the blacked floor all around. But yet, his wings still glittered a little with the power they still contained in those rare times that the light caught them. He was a squalid, vastly diminished, and begrimed mockery of what he once was, but he still was Shadryn Kyros Aurion. He found just clinging to his own name helped when he began to unhinge, though he knew it was but a poor delaying tactic for the inevitable.
Shadryn had given up struggling against the cords long ago. He had no idea in heaven or earth what these ropes were made of, but there was a reason they were being used on him. Whenever he wriggled, they tightened of their own accord. They were so tight now that they bit into his skin, occasionally causing dribbles of ichor to drip onto the floor. If he fought especially hard, new cords would even appear and find fresh patches of skin to bind. The Angelus' warped and weakened mind couldn't even determine where the ropes ended. Even in the light, it seemed that they stretched back into the shadows and anchored themselves on the dark air.
Honestly, the Nephilim could care less. Most of his time now was spent in a restless, sleepless, thoughtless stupor. He hung limply from his bonds and tried endlessly to slip into the cold grip of eternity, but he always eventually woke. If not on his own, then at the slice of one of the torturer's blades. As terrible as the injuries he sustained always were, they were never enough to grant him rest. And that, of course, was the point. When he did think, his thoughts were fragmented, hazy, and distorted. He knew not what Indira planned to glean from him as he had no information nor functional use to her cause. She just seemed to relish holding one of Siaraia's most bitter enemies in her pale grip. Shadryn still clinged to sanity, but he could feel his grip on reality slipping with every eternity he spent in this dark.
His numb trance was interrupted this time by the sound of approaching footsteps. The Nephilim's dim and bleak consciousness knew that the pain was coming for him again. The Masseuse would have new tools with him this time, as he had alluded to on his last visit. And yet, Shadryn found himself oddly craving the visit, if only as a way to shatter the dark for but a brief moment and to feel something other than the cords around his body and the cold, noxious mist of the dark air. When the footsteps approached the door, he squeezed his eyes shut to brace for the sudden flare of light that always blinded him.