Chapter 1 -Part 2: Renfield the Interrogator
Renfield was awoken from a deep sleep by a persistent itch. The spiderweb scarring on his jaw was flaring up and making his slumber impossible. He rubbed at it till it was agitated raw and went into the bathroom to wash up. He dragged a hobbled right foot across the cold granite floor, his left leading confidently.
Renfield worked for the Ripple Guardians, but was no soldier. His official rank was “specialist” within the system but everyone knew what that meant. This man was an extractor of information. He tortured people that he was pointed to, and he was talented at it. It was an art form in some ways; reading people, applying the right amount of force, the psychological manipulation. He worked sporadically when needed, so in his downtime he read.
Strewn around Renfield’s ample quarters were scattered annals of battles past, of lore and history, of current news shipped to him from far places. He liked to be informed. His thinking; you never know when a bit of knowledge can get you out of a bind, or allow you to see through lies.
He stood at his wash basin and poured in steamy water from a copper kettle nearby. Renfield always kept a large amount of hot water on flame for the washing of his hands, his face. He had spent most of his youth in and out of prison cells, so cleanliness was a luxury that he took advantage of in his wizened years. He was a short man, broad shoulders, and at some point had even cut the figure of something heroic. But a rough life had robbed him of any of that, which he made no qualms with. Renfield was quite comfortable being an outsider. Bravery never really suited him; and the battlefield was a beautiful place, but Renfield was content to die in a room. More comfortable. His days of carnage in battle were past him, but his usefulness in such brutality was not.
He waited for the scalding water to settle to a still pool in the basin. Slowly he dipped his hands in, nailless fingertips first. A look of complete serenity washed over his face. The heat from the near boiling water cooled his itching, pushed it further back into his head. He became one with the pain, the silence of the stoney washroom faded from his mind, and all at once Renfield was nowhere…
A soft rap at the door, a mumbled voice behind it.
Renfield opened his eyes and flexed his scarred hands.
“One moment, please.”
He dried his hands on a nearby washcloth, and pulled a simple linen shirt over his back. The shirt covered the dark tapestries and lines of previous abuse. Old burns, whip cuts, and knife marks disappeared under white. Only his freshly red hands and marked face free to the world. He unlocked the heavy bolt on the door with a mangled hand, the door swung open.
“Yes.”
A stern looking guard stood at the door at leisurely attention. The soldiers here respected no rank as far as Renfield was concerned. There was fear in their eyes when they were sent for him, which Renfield liked, but no desire to maintain military order. It suited him very well.
“We have three in a cell. You’re needed.”
The young man's voice was deep, his eyes darted to the inside of Renfield’s room. Probing with curiosity.
“Ten minutes please. Wait here.”
Renfield closed the door in his face, not waiting for a response.
It took Renfield a little bit to get ready. His body was in near constant agony. His uniform was simple enough, but Renfield’s joints were stiff from constant injury and rehealing. He labored over putting his arms in the black jacket, his legs into his tan trousers, tying his shoes with arthritic hands. It was a process that helped Renfield though. His hands cracked and flexed to life as he worked on getting dressed, they were his most important tool besides his mind. He put his white leather gloves on last. They were stained slightly with the blood of countless victims, and fit him snuggly. He took one last stretch, pulled it from his broad shoulders down to his maligned ankle, grabbed a dark wooden-cane and left the room. Before opening the door he grabbed a large leather bag with his free hand, his kit.
The soldier sat in the hallway in a wooden chair, he was chewing a wad of tobacco.
“Let’s go.”
Renfield’s voice was a coiled viper, his words tense with deadly precision.
The soldier rose slowly. Renfield saw his eye linger slightly on his right foot. It was twisted, facing unnaturally inwards.
Renfield struck the ground sharply with his cane. The man flinched visibly, straightened up.
“Sure, yeah.”
“Tell me everything you know on the way.”