[Mini Event] The Handover of Arlathan

TW: Blood magic and slight description of gore

The challenge was issued. The terms clear. 

The suspect placed. The suspect to wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

And. 

Wait.

Carasson all the while, in the hallway outside the warded room where his mark waited, a look of cool indifference as he examined his nailbeds. Of the numerous ways to elicit speech from another, Cara had found that silence was an effective as tool as any. To some, there was nothing more unsettling than languishing in silence and often, in desperation, truth shown through. And in the case of someone more desperate to keep their secrets, well....

After an hour, he entered the room, the door shutting behind him with a clang of finality. 

The was no kindness on his otherwise kind countenance. Hands clasped formally in front of him before he broke into a pace towards an available chair he would then set in front of the suspect. This wasn't who he was, not really, but all too often matters required an adaptable nature. A result driven approached. He sat, slowly and calmly, the table between them made up with strategically placed bowls, the largest one in the middle and a jeweled dagger over a neatly folded cloth. He resisted his own urge to pale at the sight he'd requested to be placed, but knowing that it was the confrontation of his own horrors that might prove effective in the end. 

He reached for the blade. I know why you did it. He stated simply, eyes still not meeting the others. I understand. He said slowly. It needed to be done. Wisps of silvery shadow started to form around them, until one resembled the mangled body of the victim in a starkly realistic rendering, even the blood appearing fresh enough to catch light, ravaged wounds still raw and seeping.  

He used the tip of the blade to manipulate the illusion, swirling the magic to break into more scenes. A figure kneeling over the body, cloaked, only a hand visible as it reached out to smooth over the lifeless face of the victim as if it mattered to them to show comfort in death. 

Cara dragged the point of the knife along his palm, molten crimson blooming in its wake.  He'd never professed to be a good person before his possession by Falon'Din, and now.....he didn't know if he'd ever understand his own despondent soul. Nor could he even fathom how he might want to be remembered. His only hope that Chip and Inala never witnessed moments like these. He gripped his hand into a fist and squeezed drops of his blood into a bowl. 

I can help you. He dumped those contents into the largest bowl. But you must also help yourself. He cleaned the blade again and reached across the table to forced one hand splayed wide over the lip of the bowl, held down by an unseen force despite urges to flee. By now they must know the pain to come. 

He sliced without any more warning, blood spilling forth into the bowl to mix with the rest. A surge of power and the recreated scenes before them came to life, expired limbs twitching. This was not a necromantic ceremony, and instead a mere mirage. The only indication being the slight opacity of the forms. Together the cloaked form, and the victim, now sitting upright, spoke. Confess A hissing command. Immediately the wound closed but the pain that now wracked the other would not abate. 

It would persist until a confession was uttered. 

TLDR;

• Cara will attempt 7 times to get a confession through the means of:
  
• Letting them stew nervously in the room alone 
  
• Intimidation of blood magic implements
  
• Commiseration
  
• Using his expert skill in Spirit to recreate the murder scene
  
• Blood magic ritual used primarily to illicit immense pain (amended slightly to accommodate accelerated clotting)
  
• A simple offer to help
  
• Using the vision of the victim to speak his words